


Ineffable Felinity

by Dacelin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cats, Armageddon, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Cats, Comics, F/M, Found Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24119680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dacelin/pseuds/Dacelin
Summary: It's hard to communicate with humans when all they understand is 'meow'. It makes saving the world that much harder.It's Good Omens, but the ineffable idiots are cats. Yes, really.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 353
Kudos: 282





	1. No Commonplace Mouser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how this turned into a thing. It started with a prompt and some cartoons. But I can't write short, so it's a whole thing. (Actually it's my shortest GO story by a lot, so that's something.) Anyway, there are cats. There are comics. There's action, romance, loss, and a surprising number of dinosaurs. 
> 
> Enjoy the madness.

Madame Tracy hadn’t really planned on being a psychic or a woman of the night. She’d intended to be a stenographer after her first husband died, thinking she could meet interesting people in a law court and perhaps write a book one day. But one night with a lonely judge and another incident involving convincing a lawyer the ‘spirits’ had told her that his client was innocent (really, she’d overheard his brother admitting to the crime, but she couldn’t well say that… for reasons which involved the self-same judge and being underneath a desk at the time), convinced her that her talents lay in other directions.

So, she’d attended a couple séances until she thought she had the mechanics down (she had a good eye for spotting table rappers and mirrors), and called a few escort numbers until she was satisfied about what sort of woman of mystery she wanted to be. Then it was just a matter of setting up her parlor for one sort of business, and her bedroom for another, and advertising appropriately.

Gentlemen callers were puzzled at first to find the advertisement they followed to be answered by an aging housewife whose idea of sensual involved too many stuffed animals for anyone’s taste. But as word got around, Tracy began to appeal to a very specific clientele. Mostly the type with unhealthy fixations on their mothers. These men usually took one look at her in full leather and broke down weeping. Tracy was an excellent listener, always guiding them to her kitchen for ‘a cuppa’ and promising they could get started once the man had composed himself. They rarely made it past the kitchen.

Tracy was surprised to find she spent more on tea and biscuits tins than condoms, but she was turning a profit, so she supposed she was doing something right.

The psychic business went well, except for the occasional irritating session in which an actual spirit showed up and upset the carefully orchestrated ritual by being snappish with the clients. That didn’t happen so much anymore. Not since Madame Tracy had kicked Geronimo to the curb and found herself a new spirit guide to call upon.

The trouble with appealing to an elderly demographic in both her trades was that Madame Tracy’s clients had a bad habit of dying. She’d once lost three in one week – a suspicious enough coincidence for the police to speak to her. But a combination of Tracy’s wide-eyed distress, and frustration at losing three regular sources of income, was enough to calm their skepticism. It didn’t hurt that the attorney general was one of her clients.

Madame Tracy was often surprised at how much she meant to some of her clients when their wills were read, and she received modest compensation for the kindness she’d shown them. These bequests helped pay the rent and make improvements to her flat when the bed broke or her crystal ball developed a crack.

But few past bequests had prepared her for someone leaving her an entire bookshop.

On the first dry day without clients (Thursday were appointments only, and her standing appointment had just left her a bookshop), she climbed aboard her trusty scooter and putted across town to see her new property.

“My goodness, Mr. Fell,” she marveled as she gazed around the dim interior, “it certainly needs a good dusting.”

The statement was directed at a white-hair Siberian cat who was currently picking his way through the clutter with a purr in his throat.

Mr. Fell – Aziraphale properly, but Madame Tracy found that too much of a mouthful – was another inheritance which had arrived at her home two years prior. Tracy hadn’t been the least bit certain of what to do with the pedigree animal of refined tastes who’d sauntered into her flat as if he owned it, but she’d found herself taken with him. And the cat proved especially useful during séances. He’d sit on the table, staring hard at the crystal ball, his blue eyes practically glowing in the dim light.

Madame Tracy’s neighbor had helpfully suggested that he was a witch’s familiar, and Tracy found the idea charming, even if she wasn’t positive what that meant. Still, it meant she could dispense with Geronimo and use Mr. Fell as her spirit guide. It was much easier that way. Mr. Fell never summoned actual spirits, and he meowed at just the right points to draw attention to himself when Mrs. Ormerod blathered on too long at her dead husband.

At this moment, the spirit guide in question felt he had found himself in Heaven.

The cat wound through the book stacks, purring pleasantly and rubbing his cheek against the aged shelves. He couldn’t say why this location practically sang to him, but he felt as in love with a location as any feline could possibly be.

He nudged a book off the shelf and nosed open the pages. Poetry. Dickenson, if he wasn’t mistaken. Lovely cadence to her work, if a bit fixated upon the finality of life. Ah well, these things happened.

He wandered onward, pausing to stretch in a pool of sunlight. He could nap right now… right after he convinced a human to sweep the floor. Really, there was too much dust and not nearly enough cat hair to make the place hospitable, but he could arrange for that to change. Humans could generally be compelled to oblige his whims – it just required a suitable amount of purring and forehead boops.

“I don’t know about the inventory,” Madame Tracy fussed. “I suppose there are people who would pay for these books if I knew who to ask. It seems a shame to just cart away the whole collection. Still, Soho real estate. I’m sure the property’s worth a fortune.”

Aziraphale’s ears stood straight up. Sell the bookshop?! After they’d only just found this delightful treasure trove? Certainly not!

He leaped onto the counter, meowing and rubbing against the cash register.

“What’s that, Mr. Fell?” Tracy asked, hurrying over to rub him behind the ears. “What do you think we should do?”

“I think you should keep the bookshop, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, knocking his forehead firmly against her hand. “I’m sure that would be best.” He rubbed again against the cash register, swatting at the machine until he found the lever which opened the till. Purring loudly, he planted himself on top of the money drawer.

“You’re right. It’s empty,” Madame Tracy incorrectly agreed glumly. “Better to sell.”

Aziraphale mewed indignantly. Communicating with humans could be so frustrating. He leaped to the ground and trotted across the room to the nearest pile of books. With a quick bound, he sprang to the top of the stack where he stretched himself out, curling his claws possessively around the edges of the books.

“Or… you think we should keep it?” Tracy marveled. “Oh, Mr. Fell. I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a bookshop.” She looked around. “Although this would be the right atmosphere for a haunting.”

A few more minutes of purring and meowing convinced Madame Tracy that her cat at least believed the bookshop was worth holding onto. Still not convinced, but needing to be home in time for a private reading, she put Aziraphale into the basket on the front of her scooter and putted home, muttering all the while about back taxes and investment opportunities.

“It’s a lovely little shop,” she mused to Mr. Shadwell when she brought him his dinner several hours later. “Such a location. I’m not sure how the old owner afforded it, although I think the curtained-off backroom has something to do with that.”

“Away with ye’, woman, and yer foul stories!” Shadwell fumed. “And take yer infernal beast wit’ ye’!”

Aziraphale had trotted past the humans hovering in the doorway and was batting scraps of newspaper clippings across Shadwell’s living room.

“Now, Mr. Shadwell,” Madame Tracy admonished, “you know Mr. Fell wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Flies, aye,” the old man grunted. “It’s the souls of the corruptible he’s after, mark my words.”

Tracy was used to ignoring his talk of witches and supernatural, which she did now. “I suppose I could give it a go. If the shop doesn’t turn a profit, I could sell it. Or change the inventory. I’d just need someone to run it…” Her expression cleared. “What’s the name of that nice lad who cuts coupons for you?”

Shadwell shook a finger at her. “Now, Jezebel. Dun’t ye’ be setting yer sights on corruptin’ young Newt! He’s in the army of righteousness now. He doesn’t need ye’ taintin’ his soul.”

“Of course not,” Madame Tracy agreed with an affectionate smile. “You just tell Newt to come down and see me once he’s done clipping up your newspapers. I’m sure he’d appreciate a steady income. That poor boy looks like he hardly eats. Come along, Mr. Fell. You need your dinner before the next client arrives.”

Aziraphale trotted out, flitting his tail along Shadwell’s leg in passing.

The old man jumped and scowled. “Away with ye’, foul beast, and ye’ painted Jezebel.”

Madame Tracy turned back with a blush and a smile. “Oh, Mr. Shadwell. The things you say!”

Shadwell slammed the door with a growl. Upon turning around, his own blush turned an even brighter shade of red.

Was it his imagination, or had all the newspaper scraps been nudged into the shape of a heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town](http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/t__s__eliot/poems/15145) By T. S. Elliot


	2. The Tail of Night Flickering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to the amazing art which inspired this story. The artist asked to remain anonymous, so unless otherwise stated, all drawings are attributed to the _Ineffable Feline Artist_ , who deserves all the praise and purring for the great drawings.

Six months later, Madame Tracy could say the bookshop was starting to turn a profit.

Newt, as she’d expected, was delighted to be offered a steadier job than the erratic salary of being a private in the two-man Witchfinder Army. And in a shop without a computer in sight! Even the inventory was on paper – and Newt was very good at dull, accounting sort of work.

He was that sort of person.

The curtained-off section in the back of the shop was the bestselling part of the business. Mr. Shadwell had kindly assisted with advertising by picketing in front of the shop until everyone knew the best place on the street to frequent for specific literatures and tastes.

Madame Tracy had quickly expanded to more products than just books when she saw where the interests of the clientele lay. Newt was often red-faced as he wrestled inflatables into nondescript paper bags or fielded questions about lube recommendations.

The occult book section had grown when some of Tracy’s fellow psychics had asked her to carry their books. Not wanting to play favorites, she’d expanded her inventory to a variety of New Age topics. Helped along again by Shadwell’s free advertising, the shop was soon frequented by young people who asked Newt in dreamy voices what he knew about selecting power stones or the proper ingredients for a love potion. He was never sure if they were flirting when they said these things. He generally just tried not to look too long at any of them (Shadwell had told him to count the nipples of anyone entering the shop, but one face-slap was enough as far as Newt was concerned).

Rare book enthusiasts visited as well, although they rarely left with anything. The shop had a general air of those books existing to be admired and read, not purchased. Few tried. Those few walked away with cat scratches.

Although those three groups were the ones expected to enter the shop, the overwhelming number of patrons arrived because of the fluffy, white cat who lay in the front window reading the books. So many people wanted selfies with the ‘book cat’ that Newt put out a donation jar, which often had more in it than the register by the end of the night.

=^-^= 

It’s fair to say all cats are unusual. But some are more unusual than others.

Looking at him, perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t come off immediately as odd. Well-bred, yes. Refined in taste to the point of pickiness, certainly. But odd? Well…

There was the fact that he read books. The visitors to the shop just thought it was cute that the cat napped in the window over a book as if he was reading. But Newt knew the cat to be quite demanding regarding _which_ book he chose to spend the day perusing, and that he turned the pages at the rate of someone avidly reading the text. And that he was very careful to never leave claw marks on the pages.

Newt knew these things and chose not to worry much about them. He liked his job, and if working in the bookstore meant giving in to the literary whims of a cat, it was better than searching for instances of raining frogs for Shadwell. Aziraphale was a much better cuddler.

For his part, Aziraphale considered himself in no way odd. He didn’t wonder how he was different from other cats since he rarely encountered other cats. Few seemed to get along with him, and he kept to himself.

He’d had quite a few owners, though it was hard to remember most of them. There’d been William, who painted such curious images of Heaven and Hell while practicing his poetry. And Ernest, who had brought him to live in Florida for a time. And he couldn’t forget Beatrix, with her lovely watercolor books.

Much of the rest was a blur which Aziraphale worried very little about. That his life seemed to stretch behind him quite a bit longer than a cat’s ought to was only a passing puzzlement to him. So long as there was fish in his bowl and a warm pillow for his bed, he was content.

(Well, ideally also warm milk, ample sunlight, books, a warm fireplace, blankets, and all the other commodities a well-bred cat had come to expect.)

Now he had this wonderful bookshop in which to spend his days, and his evenings with Madame Tracy and her curious friends.

He couldn’t imagine needing anything else out of life.

=^-^= 

The night was dark and not yet stormy (although clouds were massing) as a black car drove through London.

The car was going impossibly fast, both for the reckless turns it was taking and for the age of the vehicle. A car of that antique vintage shouldn’t have been able to go anywhere swiftly, but the driver didn’t seem to know that.

Whoever was hunched over the wheel had no heed for care of the car or concern for pedestrians. They shot through the street in a dark motion blur, squealing their tires with every ruthless turn.

The car shook and creaked, barely withstanding the strain of the journey.

The trunk latch gave out as a tire hit a pothole. The driver didn’t notice.

Someone else did.

As the car slowed down a fraction to take a corner, something small and desperate launched itself from the boot. By the time the little form had stopped tumbling and righted itself, the car was just a rumble in the distance.

Taking no chances, the creature took off running in the opposite direction as if the forces of Hell were on its heels.

=^-^= 

Newt was just unlocking the shop when he heard the _toot-toot_ of a scooter horn. He turned quickly. “Mrs. Tracy! I didn’t expect you today.”

Madame Tracy pulled her scooter over to the curb. 

Aziraphale leaped out of the basket and trotted ahead of her to the store.

“I just came by to get the account books,” the woman said breathlessly. “And it looked like rain, so I couldn’t have Mr. Fell wandering down here by himself.”

“How does he get here?” Newt asked curiously. He frequently found the cat waiting at the door for him in the mornings.

“Oh, who knows how cats manage things?” Madame Tracy said dismissively. “Maybe he takes the bus.”

(Tracy knew little about cats and simply accepted Aziraphale’s odd ways as being typical of felines.)

Inside the shop, Newt first got down Aziraphale’s book of choice and settled him in the front window, then located the accounts for Madame Tracy. They talked business for a few minutes, then Tracy hurried out to beat the coming rain.

A stretch of quiet passed in which Aziraphale read and Newt tried to fix a broken clock (and somehow made the radio explode in the process). The tranquility was broken when a parent and two very young children arrived in the store.

Aziraphale tolerated the children’s attention with saintly patience until his tail was yanked one too many times. He stalked out of the shop with dignity dripping from his whiskers.

He glanced quickly at the dark sky. If he was quick, he could make it to the bakery on the next corner and back without getting his feet wet. The baker made excellent scones. Aziraphale could reliably charm at least one into his possession, and some tidbits from the patrons as well.

He set off at as swift a pace as a cat of his level of refinement could go.

The rain began almost immediately with a light patterning which was tolerable, but only just. Aziraphale hesitated, then kept going. He was nearly there, and he could wait out the storm in the bakery.

It was as he was passing an alley that a flicker of movement caught his eye. He froze. He’d had a tangle or two with dogs in this area and had learned to be careful.

But the movement he saw was far too small to be a dog – at least one of any threat. No, the form appeared to be that of a cat trying to shelter itself under the open lid of a box.

Despite only getting a look at the back end of the other cat, Aziraphale could see signs of hardship. A patch of skin was missing from the cat’s tail, and there were bruises on his flanks.

Ever the soft touch, Aziraphale hurried forward with a trill.

The battered cat turned sharply, flattening himself against the box with a look of fear. He hissed, though it was more a sound of fright and misery than threat. He crouched, low and weak, against the box.

“You poor dear!” Aziraphale purred, halting and reaching out a tentative paw. Up close, he could see the cat was skinny and painfully lacking in a proper coat. “You don’t have much fur to keep you warm, do you?” he observed sympathetically.

The cat’s eyes widened further with fright and confusion. “Go away,” he hissed, conveying no energy for a real threat.

Aziraphale sat down, wrapping his tail around his paws. “Certainly, if that’s what you want. I wouldn’t disturb you if you’d rather be left alone.”

Nervously, the cat slid away from the shelter of the box until he had an open path down the alley. He edged further from Aziraphale.

The Siberian rose to his paws. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought…” He trailed off as the heavens opened and the rain poured down.

The scrawny cat let out a hopeless moan and hunkered down in place. He was cold, hurt, lost, and now wet. So very…

…sheltered?

It took a moment to register that the rain wasn’t falling on him, though he could hear it pattering steadily. He looked up.

The Siberian had come to stand over the battered cat, his body stretched out to shield as much as he could from the downpour. He stood with head held high, no regard for the rain cascading down his whiskers and soaking his immaculately groomed coat.

To the bedraggled cat beneath him, it was as if a guardian angel had descended. He huddled himself into a smaller bundle, gazing up at his rescuer with awe.

“I could do this all day,” the Siberian said, “but I think we’d be more comfortable inside. Can you stand getting wet for just a block?”

The cat nodded and scrambled to his bruised and weary paws.

Soon two feline shapes dashed down the street toward the bookshop.

“Here we are,” the Siberian announced, rearing up to push open the door. “We’ll have you safe and dry in no time at all. I’m Aziraphale, incidentally.”

The dark-colored cat gazed around with wide, amber eyes which rested at last on his sodden rescuer. He swallowed hard. “Crowley,” he softly.

The Siberian’s blue eyes glowed with happiness. “Crowley,” he repeated. “Let’s get the nice human to turn up the space heater.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Finding the Cat in a Spring Field at Midnight](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=35341) By Pattiann Rogers


	3. Troubled His Animal Blood

Newt blinked when Aziraphale entered the shop followed by a creature which resembled a long-legged and very wet lizard. But Aziraphale marched up to him and flitted a wet tail across his pants until Newt took the hint and plugged in the heater. Remarkably, it survived the experience of being handled by Newt and began to radiate warmth at once. His task completed, Newt returned to reading a magazine. As far as supervisors went, he found Mr. Fell to be one of the more tolerable.

Aziraphale insisted upon his guest having the choice location by the heater while he concentrated on grooming the water out of his own coat. He would have offered to groom Crowley, but that seemed too forward for a first meeting.

He pretended not to notice the nervous way Crowley’s eyes followed him, the way he flinched each time Newt shifted, the way his eyes snapped open each time he started to drift off.

 _Maybe he’d be more comfortable napping in the storage room?_ Azirahale wondered. But the storage room was musty and far colder than this cozy little space behind the counter.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I might have a bit of a lie down myself,” he said, stretching himself out on Crowley’s other side.

“Your house,” the cat muttered and scrunched himself up a little.

“Bookshop, actually,” Aziraphale replied primly. “And the finest in Soho, if I do say so myself.”

“Guess you do,” Crowley rumbled, deliberately turning his head away.

Aziraphale forced himself not to be offended. Instead, he launched into a detailed inventory of his favorite books and their plots, along with the changes he wanted made to the shop as soon as he could convince Newt to listen to him.

Crowley pretended to ignore him, but he could not ignore a heater blasting directly into his face for long and was obliged to turn his head toward Aziraphale. Gradually his body relaxed, and his eyelids grew heavier. He barely twitched when the bell above the door rang and several customers entered.

Aziraphale compacted himself into a bread-loaf position, edging as close as he thought prudent. Eventually he stopped talking and let his eyes sink closed.

The two cats napped for the rest of the day. Aziraphale awoke periodically to check his guest and scope the bookshop. Crowley slept sprawled out and dead to the world.

When Newt locked up for the day, Aziraphale signaled that he’d be remaining there. Newt shrugged, filled up the cat bowl with kibble, and headed out.

Aziraphale nibbled at the dry food. Generally he considered it beneath him, but he wouldn’t get anything better unless he went home. Although there was the bakery… Maybe he could take Crowley there in the morning.

Speaking of Crowley… the poor dear. So tired. The sleep must have done him some good. Now that they were alone, perhaps he’d be calmer. He’d certainly want something to eat, and then maybe he’d let Aziraphale see about cleaning off that nasty wound on his tail.

Aziraphale halted before the sleeping cat, smiling fondly down at the unconscious form. Was it best to let him sleep? Or would it be alright to wake him…?

The decision was made for him by several voices shouting outside the shop. The noise faded quickly, but not before Crowley stirred.

He sat bolt upright, his wide eyes fixing on the window. “When did it get so late?!” he gasped.

Aziraphale smiled gently. “You were sleeping, my dear.”

The lanky cat leaped to his paws. “I have to go! I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s still raining,” Aziraphale protested. “Stay the night. No one will mind. There’s food in the…”

“No!” Crowley fled to the door, rearing up to swat the handle. “I have to get out!”

“Calm down,” Aziraphale soothed, sauntering up beside him. “I’m sure waiting until morn-”

“NO!” Crowley whirled, his eyes bugging with anxiety and his tail lashing furiously. “I can’t stay! I can’t!”

Aziraphale wondered what he’d done wrong, but he reared up and nudged the locks. The door swung inward.

With a yowl of relief, Crowley dashed into the rain. The darkness swallowed him immediately.

Aziraphale stood at the door. Rain dripped onto his head and ran down his cheeks.

He barely noticed.

=^-^= 

Crowley could cross London at speeds which would have impressed the average pedestrian. He knew every shortcut, every tube station, every bus route. He’d had ample practice.

It took brief minutes to get his bearings, then he was off, hitching rides on any vehicle heading in the general direction of St. John’s Woods.

The cloudy sky gave him no sense of time, just the certainty that he would be late. Too late…

Why had he slept? Nevermind how warm the shop had been. The soothing sound of the other cat’s voice. The way he’d looked so kindly at him…

No! He had to concentrate on what was important!

He sprang off the lorry whose steps he’d clung to before it reached its stop and dashed up the street. There weren’t enough pedestrians out in this weather to bother him.

Another forty minutes of making use of vehicles when he could, and his beleaguered paws when he couldn’t, and he was wriggling through the hedge of a massive estate.

He moved warily now, keeping to the bushes and checking the grounds with care before dashing across open places. Reaching the house only made him breathe a little easier. He still had to get inside.

He jogged around the side of the house, his head canted upward in cautious observation of the windows. Had anyone spotted him? It didn’t seem so. Finally, a scrap of luck.

With practiced skill, he sprang up a trellis, using the ivy as helpful paw-holds until he reached the window. He clawed at the edge, finally managing the tug it open enough to wriggle through the gap.

He dropped heavily to the ground, nearly crumpling with exhaustion. But, no. This was no time for weariness.

He rubbed against window curtains, ridding himself of at least some of the rainwater. Satisfied, he crossed the room.

It was a child’s bedroom of the most opulent variety. A computer hummed powerfully on a desk, despite having no purpose but children’s games. Toys of all varieties crowded the shelves. Pocket money lay discarded and insignificant on a bedside table along with a stack of cards reading ‘ _happy birthday_ ’ in colorful fonts.

In the bed, a child lay on his side, asleep but with a face showing no peace. Worry clouded his expression. Worry and confusion.

Crowley padded across the bed until he reached the boy. Meowing, he butted the boy beneath the chin.

Sleepy eyes cracked open, and a tousled blond head turned toward the cat. The look of worry gave way to relief. “You came back.”

Crowley trilled and paced a tight circle, purring as he nuzzled against the child.

The boy sat up, scratching the cat where he liked best. “Nanny said you weren’t coming back,” he whispered. “I… didn’t think that was true, but…” There was doubt in his voice.

Crowley purred harder, forcing his tail to remain upright and neutral – not lashing out his thoughts regarding _Nanny._

The boy talked a little longer, sleep weighing heavily in his voice. At last he settled back, one hand resting on the cat who stretched out beside him. “G’night, Cat,” he mumbled.

Crowley gave the hand one last nuzzle. “Sleep well, Adam,” he purred.

He waited until the boy’s breathing had slowed and his hand had grown heavy and limp. Then he inched out from beneath the hand and padded to the foot of the bed.

He crouched, eyes wide and alert. His tail twitched in tense anticipation.

The night grew darker. Within the room, it grew darker still. Oppressive and bitterly cold. The sense of _something_ just beyond the sight and hearing of humankind. But feline eyes saw something more. Wide ears heard danger in the air.

Claws unsheathed, lips curled back, the cat waited.

And the boy slept on in blissful, unbroken slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Cat and the Moon](http://www.poetry-archive.com/y/the_cat_and_the_moon.html) By William Butler Yeats
> 
> The [Winfield House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winfield_House) is the residence of the U.S. ambassador in England, so this would be the Dowling's home in the story.


	4. The Cat Came Back

Crowley sat at the window, watching Adam leave with his tutors. The boy would be safe in their care. Security around him. Human voices occupying his attention.

Crowley could relax.

Except he couldn’t. The house wasn’t safe anymore.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten in two days. There was a bowl waiting for him in the kitchen, but he couldn’t trust the food here any longer.

Well, what did that matter? He’d lived on the streets before. He knew how to scrounge.

But he couldn’t trust the trash in the house. Not if _they_ guessed that was where he was getting sustenance.

The city it was, then.

He kept his eyes peeled as he crossed the lawn. The gardener didn’t seem to be about. Crowley had less fear of him in the daylight. The gardener was the sort who attacked from behind with the cover of darkness, as Crowley knew first-hand. Still it was better if _they_ didn’t spot him.

Off the estate, he trotted resolutely toward the tube station.

Crowley was dimly aware that he was different from other cats, although he tried not to have much to do with other felines. Crossing their paths generally involved a lot of hissing and swatting.

The world had always seemed to be against him. Maybe it was appearance – the giant ears and minimal fur seemed to repulse many. The luminous amber eyes didn’t help. Too many found them serpentine and unnerving.

There were exceptions. He’d had owners he’d enjoyed. Théophile had done a nice painting of him once. And Pablo had always been affectionate, even if his treatment of his revolving door of wives and girlfriends had left something to be desired. And Hieronymus with his weird subject matter. But he’d painted Crowley into Eden – eating a lizard, which filled him with mirth for reasons he couldn’t understand.

That his life seemed to stretch behind him much longer than it should have didn’t concern him. That much of it was a blur which he couldn’t make sense of was equally unimportant. Mostly he was occupied with finding his next meal and sometimes following the nudges of his gut to travel somewhere or do something particular.

It had been one of those impulses which had led him into a convent ten years before.

And when he’d looked into a bassinet, his instincts had unequivocally told him to stay beside the child.

The parents and nuns had had other ideas. But he hadn’t been easy to remove. Even when he’d clawed a nun for suggesting utterly terrible names for the infant.

He’d purred his approval of the chattery nun who’d fed him biscuits – the kind with the pink icing – and brightly said, ‘ _There’s always Adam_ ’, while the abbess was still trying to press ‘ _Warlock_ ’ on the reluctant mother.

The first two years had been easy enough. Adam’s nurse had liked cats and let Crowley in to sit with her while she tended the baby. She called him ‘Cat’, telling Adam that it was easier that way.

The nanny who had replaced the nurse had assumed the cat was an accepted member of the household. By then Adam was old enough to have opinions, and his opinion was that Cat went wherever he went. His largely absentee parents might have had more to say on the subject, but they sometimes went months without noticing Adam’s feline shadow.

The night terrors had arrived sometime after Adam’s third birthday.

Crowley didn’t know how else to describe them.

He’d awoken one night to a feeling of oppression. As if the universe was leaning in. Leaning closer.

Whispering.

And he hadn't liked what he had heard.

He’d leaped onto Adam’s bed, arched his back, and hissed defiantly at the barbed voices circling the child.

The voices had retreated.

Months passed, but Crowley had never believed them gone. He gave up roaming at night, curling resolutely at the foot of Adam’s bed until morning.

And then the whispers came again.

And again.

Infrequent, but often enough to keep him alert.

And then…

It happened when Adam was five. That was when his nanny had marched up to his parents and informed them that they were missing their son’s childhood and needed to make a show of caring even when there weren’t cameras watching.

She was fired as soon as she finished ranting.

The new nanny arrived the next day.

By chance, the Dowlings hired a new gardener the same day.

And Crowley’s life had been one of increasing exhaustion ever since.

Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe the nanny had nothing to do with the increasing persistence of the whispers.

But Crowley didn’t trust her.

Maybe it was the eyes. He’d never seen a human’s irises range toward violet.

The gardener seemed to attract too many frogs. Big ones which looked like they wouldn’t mind making a meal out of a cat or a child’s hand.

Neither of them liked him. Nanny had tried to have him evicted, and he was certain his near-drowning in the fountain hadn’t been as accidental as the gardener claimed. But when Crowley had proved difficult to eliminate, they’d fallen into an uneasy stalemate.

For his part, Crowley merely watched them. He was more concerned with the voices which came in the night and saved his energy for those battles. He’d thought they’d had some sort of understanding.

He’d been wrong.

Really, he should have been paying better attention. On another evening, he probably would have noticed that his food tasted off. But the chaos of Adam’s birthday had distracted his mind. He’d had his nose deep in his bowl before the smell began to stir memories of his artist owners and the narcotics they’d taken. He’d rushed upstairs.

He’d managed to stay awake – barely. His presence seemed enough to keep the whispers at bay. Rarely did one of the voices draw close enough for him to swat. They’d retreated at last, and Crowley had sunk down in drunken exhaustion.

He didn’t know which one had grabbed him. Just that he’d been shoved into a pillowcase and dragged from the room.

He’d awoken in a hurry in the boot of the car. Either luck or desperate shoving had yielded an escape. Now he was back where he belonged. And still very much in danger.

He claimed a seat on the train, ignoring the passengers pointing and snapping photos. His concerns were purely for his stomach. And the future.

 _Just another year,_ his mind assured him, despite having no idea where that assurance came from. It had always been there. 

He just had to stay alive until then. And find somewhere safe to sleep.

Sleep reminded him of the day before. That cat – Aziraphale. He’d offered Crowley a meal. Did the offer still stand? Guilt flickered through Crowley’s mind. He’d run off without a word of thanks. 

He jumped off the train at Oxford Circus and began retracing his route from the night before without giving himself time to think.

If he thought, he’d have noticed his stomach suddenly felt very full of butterflies.

=^-^=

Aziraphale sat despondently in the shop window, oblivious to the book beneath his paws.

Was Crowley alright? He’d run out in such a hurry. Had Aziraphale offended him? Was he hurt? Lost? Was there something Aziraphale could…?

His thoughts broke off as he spotted a familiar figure hovering on the opposite street corner.

Crowley’s gaze trailed over the bookshop. Then he turned and trudged away.

Aziraphale dashed out the door and loped after the retreating figure. “Crowley, wait!”

The lanky cat turned back reluctantly, his eyes downcast and his whiskers drooping.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gushed breathlessly. “I’ve been so worried! Are you alright? Please, come inside.”

Crowley’s eyes lifted from the ground. Surprise, disbelief and just a flicker of hope lingered there.

 _Poor dear,_ Aziraphale thought. _He’s certainly had a rough time._

Giving Crowley no opportunity to refuse, he escorted him into the shop, urging him to eat his fill and settle down wherever he felt most comfortable.

Crowley was reluctant, and also half starved. He put up a show of politely refusing, but positively bolted down the kibble at Aziraphale’s urging. Nor did he put up too much resistance when Aziraphale nudged him into the cat bed.

Instincts to protect and aid swarmed Aziraphale’s heart. He boldly embraced the desire and began washing the scraped patch on Crowley’s tail.

Crowley jumped at the first lick but didn’t pull away. He watched with a look of wonder as Aziraphale worked.

“You don’t have to go to any trouble,” he protested weakly.

“Nonsense, my dear. You look as if you could use a little pampering.” _I wonder how long he’s been on the street,_ Aziraphale mused. _Maybe he’s anxious about being inside._

“You’re quite safe here,” he said. “And you’re welcome here whenever you’d like. There’s always food and a comfortable bed.”

Crowley glanced toward Newt. “Your human won’t mind?”

“Newt?” Aziraphale chuckled. “He isn’t mine exactly. My human’s the kindly type who lets all sorts of lost humans come and talk to her until they don’t feel so lonely. Sometimes she adopts a few. Like Newt. And Mr. Shadwell, whom she’s been courting ever so long.” He sighed. “Humans just don’t take hints.”

He looked Crowley over as he spoke. Crowley seemed perfectly content to let Aziraphale ramble, which was pleasant. And he needed some proper looking after, which stirred all sorts of desires in the Siberian’s heart to be the one _doing_ the looking after. The tail-cleaning was a good start. How long before Crowley would accept a proper grooming?

Crowley, for his part, was wondering if Aziraphale liked him at all or if he considered Crowley a charity case. It put all the kindness in a different light and meant he’d have to return the favor somehow. Later. Right now he was too worn out to puzzle through these things.

He napped most of the day, getting up to leave around the time he knew the dinner-rush trash would start hitting the dumpsters. He couldn’t impose on Aziraphale for _two_ meals.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Aziraphale asked, trailing him out to the street. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“I have to get back,” Crowley replied, his ears flattening nervously. “...I don’t suppose I could… visit again tomorrow?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Of course, dear! I’d love to have you. And there’s plenty of food.” _That,_ he thought, _might have been too presumptuous._ But he wanted so badly to _feed_ the scrawny cat. Maybe take him to the bakery…

Crowley stared at him, feeling very warm. He hadn’t run across this kind of generosity in ages.

Hesitantly, he stepped close enough to bump foreheads with the Siberian. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured. Embarrassed, he fled up the street.

Aziraphale found he had a little trouble finding the door to return inside.

=^-^=

At a mansion in St. John’s Wood, the nanny loudly declared her intention to walk in the gardens.

“Just to walk,” she announced to no one in particular. “I don’t expect I’ll talk to anyone.”

“Humans are so gullible,” she chuckled under her breath.

Inside the house, the cook, the secretary, two security guards and the housekeeper resumed gossiping about how the nanny must certainly be insane and how she ought to be sacked for the good of the child – not that those no-good parents would ever believe them.

Meanwhile, with an air of confidence which would put a prima donna to shame, the nanny strolled along, just ‘happening’ to run into the gardener.

The gardener was someone else the household staff would have liked to see fired. And not just because he smelled like poo even when he hadn’t been spreading fertilizer.

“Ah, Gardener!” Nanny crowed. “How very lovely are your… cabbages.”

“Daffodils,” corrected the gardener with a sour look at the roses, which drooped a little more under his glare.

“Yes. Quite. Those look so similar.” Nanny coughed discreetly. “Maybe you could show me more of your shrubs.”

“No, those only grow under logs,” the gardener replied. “But there’s some flowers I’m tearing up over here.”

“Yes!” Nanny spoke louder. “We will go look at the flowers. Behind the shed. Where we are going for no purpose except to look at flowers.”

“The cat returned,” Nanny whispered as soon as they were alone. “You were supposed to get rid of it.”

“I did!” the gardener fumed. A large frog hopped out from beneath a flowerpot and glared at the nanny. “Bugger got out somehow.”

“How hard is it to kill one cat?”

“I don’t see you having anymore luck getting it out of the bedroom.”

“It doesn’t matter, really. We have a year to prepare the boy. Eliminating his pet would have been convenient for damaging his trust in the world, but we have other means at our disposal.”

The gardener nodded sagely. “Right. We kill the parents.”

“What? No, you idiot!” Nanny fumed. “ _Talk_ to him more. Make sure he knows his place, so he’ll be ready for his purpose when the time comes.”

The gardener scowled. “I still think a few murders would help things along.”

“No! Not yet at least.”

The gardener grunted noncommittally.

“Don’t kill anyone without running it by me first,” Nanny hissed. In a louder voice she said, “Yes, Gardener, those turnips are very fragrant. Well, I must continue my walk. It was so nice to run into you. Completely accidentally.”

“Filthy creature,” she muttered. “Acting as if we were remotely equals. He’ll know his place in the end…”

The gardener spat in Nanny’s direction. “Thinks she’s in charge,” he muttered. “She’ll know her place in the end…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Cat Came Back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltlPINPn8UU) (Muppet Show version)


	5. What Cat's Averse to Fish?

Newt was washing the front window one morning when the lanky feline trotted up.

“Hello, Mr. Cat,” he said. “It’s just you and me today.”

The cat froze and looked up at him with an anxious meow.

“On Tuesdays, Madame Tracy draws back the veil and peers into the spirit realm,” Newt quoted. “And Mr. Fell stays home to assist.”

The cat shuffled his paws uncertainly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Newt went on. “I get lonely on Tuesdays by myself.”

That seemed to decide it. The cat followed Newt into the shop, swallowed the contents of the food bowl without pausing to taste, and settled on the counter beside Newt.

Newt clipped articles from the newspaper and told the cat about the Witchfinder Army, Mr. Shadwell, Madame Tracy, and his difficulty at keeping jobs. The cat was a good listener, tilting his head inquiringly, meowing when an exclamation was required, and rubbing his cheek sympathetically against Newt’s arm when Newt got to the frustrating parts.

They shared a sandwich around noon after which the cat nodded off, and Newt wistfully studied ads for computers.

Neither paid little attention to the visitors who came and went. Until…

“Excuse me. But do you have a detailed map of the ley lines around London?”

Newt looked up blankly. “I have a tube map,” he offered.

The woman across the counter was the no-nonsense type who looked at least as smart as she probably was. “Is that a joke?” she asked coldly.

“No,” Newt replied, unable to come up with a witty response. “If you could explain what you need, maybe we have it.”

The cold look deepened. “You run an occult bookshop and you don’t know about ley lines?”

“It’s an everything bookshop,” Newt protested. “Most people come in about the cats.”

The cat trilled at the woman in a friendly fashion.

Her icy look softened. “Oh, what a lovely Oriental Shorthair.”

Newt blinked. “Is he now?”

The woman put out her hand, and the cat bumped it obligingly. Her expression softened even more. “His eyes are very usual for the breed. Wherever did you find him?”

“The manager brought him in,” Newt mumbled. He hastily corrected himself. “I mean Mr. Fell – he’s the owner’s cat. He sort of runs the place.”

They talked. The woman’s name was Anathema. She’d recently moved to London. She’d been told this was an excellent occult shop. “I’m an occultist,” she explained.

Newt nodded vaguely. He wasn’t sure about the difference between an occultist, a witch, and a psychic, except that Shadwell said they were all servants of Baphomet. But since he suspected Shadwell thought Baphomet ran the dry-cleaning business down the road, Newt didn’t pay this much attention.

The conversation ended when another customer shouldered their way to the counter with an armful of vibrators and questions about batteries. When Newt looked up, Anathema was gone.

“I looked like an utter fool,” he moaned to the cat, his face buried in his hands.

The cat purred sympathetically, but Newt swore he was also laughing. 

=^-^= 

“…This is the poetry section. I’ve been trying to get Newt to rearrange, but he hasn’t taken the hint yet. I’m afraid I’m going to have to be very sharp with him one of these days.”

Crowley trailed after Aziraphale on a proper tour of the bookshop.

One day without Aziraphale had gotten his heart twitching in interesting ways. Witnessing Newt’s failure at flirting had reminded him that he was a cat. Which meant he could do better than a floundering human.

Thus, he’d been eager to show interest in Aziraphale’s passions. He’d asked questions and complimented the bookshop so much that Aziraphale was practically glowing.

“I do enjoy the company of someone I can properly talk to,” the Siberian said with an affectionate smile. “Humans are nice and all, but… you know how they get.”

Crowley twitched his ears in agreement. Yes, humans could be dense and difficult.

He tried for all the boldness and suave he could muster. “Say, Angel,” he began, scrambling for a pet name and alighting upon the first image which had come to his mind at the sight of the Siberian. “Do you want to have dinner with me some evening? I know a good alleyway behind a sushi place…”

Aziraphale froze in stride and looked back, his brow arching with a look of… not quite repulsion. “Goodness, my dear. Me? Out on the streets? Can you imagine?” He turned away without spotting Crowley’s look of dejection.

_Time to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment,_ Crowley thought hopelessly. What had he been thinking? Obviously, Aziraphale's idea of fine dining was a can of sardines, not scraps in a dumpster.

“Although, I must say,” Aziraphale continued thoughtfully, “it is quite intoxicating to be lavished upon with such tender attentions.” His tail caressed its way around Crowley’s muzzle. He looked back at the stunned cat with an alluring smile. “I can only encourage you to keep at it, my dear…” He sauntered onward with a smug spring in his step.

  
  
  


Crowley lay on the ground, an absolutely smitten puddle. “You want attention, Angel?” he mumbled dreamily. “I’ll give you the moon if you want it.”

“I don’t know about the moon,” Aziraphale said, sticking his head back around a shelf. “But perhaps you’ll let me have another look at your poor tail. And then… you can tell me more about this sushi place.”

=^-^= 

“Jezebel! There’s some unholy fiend on the doorstep!”

“No, no, Mr. Shadwell. That’s just Mr. Fell’s young man. Isn’t that nice? You found your way here, did you? Come right in. Mr. Fell! You have a gentleman caller!”

Crowley had skittered back from the door when he’d been greeted by a roaring and slovenly human, but Madame Tracy’s soothing encouragement made him pluck up his courage and dart across the threshold.

A moment later, Aziraphale’s head appeared around a corner, his blue eyes lighting up at the sight of the other feline. “Crowley! You found your way here!”

Crowley grinned crookedly. “I couldn’t have you forgetting about me on the days you don’t deign to visit bookshop.”

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek down Crowley’s side as familiarly as if that wasn’t the first time he’d done such a thing. “I could never forget you, my dear.”

Crowley stood quite frozen, eventually following on weak knees as Aziraphale led the way into Madame Tracy’s flat.

Behind him, the humans were still arguing about his species.

“That’s no cat, woman! I know a serpent when I see one!”

“Now, Mr. Shadwell. I think you’re confused. Serpents don’t have legs.”

“Serpent, lizard, fiend of the devil. They’re all the same. No mere cat looks like that fearsome beast.”

Crowley looked back and hissed, just for the pleasure of making Shadwell jump.

“Now really, young man,” Madame Tracy scolded once she and the cats were alone in the flat. “You need to behave yourself if you’re going to visit. I have clients coming soon, and you must promise to be as polite as you can possibly be.”

Crowley trilled and rubbed against her leg.

Madame Tracy looked satisfied and hurried off to bake some biscuits.

“I notice you didn’t actually promise,” Aziraphale observed.

Crowley gave him an innocent look. “What kind of trouble could little old me possibly cause?”

About the time the planchette spelled out, ‘ _HELPIMTRAPPEDINAOUIJABOARD_ ’, followed shortly after by Shadwell shrieking in alarm to find all the pins in his room had been arranged into pentagrams, Madame Tracy decided Crowley was not allowed in the flat on séance days, and Aziraphale resolved to always have a solid promise from his friend instead of trusting implications.

“Come visit again, Mr. Crowley,” Madame Tracy said as she opened the door to let him out. “But not while I’m working.”

Crowley glanced back, wondering how she’d learned his name.

=^-^= 

"The whole thing was just a sham,” Crowley complained to Aziraphale the next day in the bookshop. “She wasn’t really talking to the spirits at all.”

“That’s true,” the Siberian agreed slowly.

“But there were spirits there,” the cat objected. “You were _talking_ to them. Why wasn’t she letting them say anything?”

Aziraphale sighed. “The people who visit Madame Tracy don’t really want to talk to their loved ones.”

“They said they did.”

“Yes, but they don’t want to _really_ know anything. They want to know the people they’ve lost are safe and happy. They want to tell them about their problems. But they don’t want to restart old arguments, or hear the departed complain. They just want to feel at peace and learn to let go.”

“So, she’s lying to them.”

Aziraphale twitched his tail meditatively. “I think… I think death happens too soon sometimes. Sometimes humans need to believe their loved ones are still with them. And let them fade away gradually. It’s easier to let go.”

Crowley watched the pedestrians outside the window. “I’ve lost humans before,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m sad when they’re gone. But that’s what happens. They don’t live forever. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “I’ve lost my share too.” He laid his head across his paws. “It would be nice to find the other sort of companion. The kind that doesn’t leave. The forever one.”

Crowley inched a little closer and nudged his nose against the back of the Siberian’s neck. “Even if… Even if something isn’t forever… It could still be worth it… couldn’t it?”

Aziraphale turned slowly and touched his nose to Crowley’s. “You know, my dear. I think it just might.”

They lounged, their heads resting in comfortable contact.

Crowley eventually spoke. “Does this mean you’ll try the sushi place with me?”

=^-^= 

Eating out with Crowley was an experience Aziraphale decided he didn’t want to repeat. The restaurant smelled lovely. But picking scraps out of the dumpster while holding a crow, several rats, and a fox at bay was not his idea of savoring fine cuisine.

“You pick the restaurant, my dear,” he said the next night. “But let’s see if I can’t arrange a better dining experience.”

Crowley obediently led the way to a middle eastern restaurant where the scents of spices wafted from a block away.

Aziraphale marched straight up to the restaurant and seated himself beside the door.

He made a show of purring and charming the passersby, escorting patrons to the door and keeping his eyes fixed on them as they ate.

As people left, they paused to slip him bits of chicken, lamb, and, once, an entire falafel.

Crowley hung back and kept out of sight at first. But gradually Aziraphale’s antics drew him to sit in the open. Aziraphale shared everything he procured, and that action seemed to spur more patrons to roll a bit of food up in their napkins as they finished their meal.

“You’re brilliant,” Crowley marveled as they sauntered along the street, their bellies stretched and their mouths humming with spices. “I couldn’t pull off cute like that.”

“We all have our talents,” Aziraphale purred. “I certainly couldn’t have scared that crow yesterday the way you did.”

A shadow passed across Crowley’s face. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

It hadn’t escaped Aziraphale’s attention that Crowley was less forthcoming about where he spent his nights or why he always arrived at the bookshop in need of a nap and a meal. He’d chosen not to pry.

A clock began to chime the hour. 

Crowley sighed. “I should go.”

“Must you?” Aziraphale asked. “My dear, all this running around can’t be good for your health.”

The lanky cat grinned and flitted his tail across Aziraphale’s chest. “Nothing’s keeping me down, Angel. Not when I have you waiting for me.” He sobered. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. Then he vanished into the evening crowd.

Aziraphale watched sorrowfully long after Crowley had vanished.

Crowley knew so much about him, and he knew so little in return.

He didn’t think it was mistrust. Or shame. But there was something. Something big his friend kept hidden from him.

How could he help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44302/ode-on-the-death-of-a-favourite-cat-drowned-in-a-tub-of-goldfishes) by Thomas Gray


	6. I Smell a Rat Close By

It was raining.

Aziraphale lounged in the shop front window, watching the water fall. No sushi today. Probably no Crowley either. Or many customers.

The latter was fine with him. People coming in to read the books or admire him were one thing. People who wanted to _buy_ the books were quite another. He’d been known to trip customers if it kept them from getting at the first editions.

Not that it stopped them most of the time. It was a bookshop, and Newt was dreadfully committed to selling products. He was a nice boy, but he had his flaws.

Aziraphale wrapped his tail tighter around his body and nosed open a book. Stevenson seemed appropriate for the weather.

He was absorbed in David Balfour’s struggles to survive in the wilds when the bell above the door jingled. Aziraphale looked up with a pleased purr at the sight of the serious-faced young woman.

Newt was just coming out of the back, struggling with a large box. He lurched to a startled stop. His mouth dropped open, an action which was echoed by the bottom of the box, which suddenly gave way in a cascade of paperbacks.

Aziraphale rose to his feet with a protesting yowl.

“Sorry,” Newt mumbled, hastily stooping to pile books into the box without doing anything about the broken bottom.

Anathema hurried forward. “Let me help you with those.”

“N-no trouble,” Newt stammered, turning even brighter red as a flailing hand caught the newly stacked pile and sent the books tumbling back to the ground.

Anathema stooped to help just as Newt tried to stand up with an unwieldy armful. Their foreheads clonked together, and Newt sat down in yet another shower of books.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sat back to watch.

=^-^= 

“Are you sure you’re alright? I have a first-aid kit right here,” Newt stammered for the third time as he and Anathema finally finished moving the books and themselves to a safer location.

“I’m fine,” Anathema assured him from her perch on the other stool behind the counter. “It wasn’t bad. I’d have known if it would be bad.”

“Oh?” Newt nodded gamely. “Are you a psychic?”

“No. Just an occultist.”

“Right… You said that before.”

They lapsed into silence.

“The… uh… occult books are over there.”

“Where they always are?”

“…Right.”

Aziraphale sprang onto the counter. “Just speak up, young man!” he rumbled. “Haven’t you noticed how often she comes in here? Ask her to dinner!”

“Your cat has a lot to say,” Anathema observed.

“Mr. Fell? He’s in charge, so he should.” Newt reddened. “I mean… I know he’s a cat. But he acts like he owns the place, so…”

“No, I understand.” Anathema reached out to scratch the Siberian. “Cats are sensible. I’d certainly listen to one if it was me.”

Aziraphale leaned into her hand. “Then _you_ ask him out, my dear. You can’t expect _him_ to make the first move. He’s not a swift individual.”

“Do you have a cat?” Newt asked.

“No. I’m still settling in. Do you think I should get one?”

“Maybe. Or… just come visit Mr. Fell more often.”

She smiled tentatively at Newt. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Aziraphale sighed a long-suffering sound. “Well, that’s a start anyway.”

=^-^= 

Crowley chased the football down the field, enjoying the shouts of amusement and annoyance his presence caused.

On the lawn, a collection of children and security guards had gathered for a rowdy afternoon game.

Summer had given way to a long and mild autumn. Adam was attending school now, along with a private tutor to ensure he could appear intelligent enough to please his parents and impress their friends. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been since the school often ignored the demands of the parents and allowed the children liberty to explore and create beyond the rigors of the textbooks, and the tutor had more interest in encouraging independent thought than building a robot child of the parents’ expectations. So, Adam and his classmates enjoyed some freedom when away from their guardians’ interfering eyes.

Crowley felt safe leaving Adam in their care. It gave him plenty of opportunities to visit Aziraphale.

But he frequently returned late in the evenings, and it was worrying Adam.

As was the not eating.

“Don’t you like your food?” he’d asked as Crowley turned away from his bowl. “We can get another brand.”

Crowley had rubbed against him and tried to assure him that it was fine. He simply couldn’t dare eat anything from an open container anymore. He’d seen Nanny watching him with too malicious a smile and the gardener lurking around the kitchen too often to trust anything purchased for him.

“I think he’s just spoiled,” the cook had said, offering Crowley a scrap of turkey, which he’d eaten at once.

Crowley was still cautious of anything edible in the mansion, but he trusted the cook. Adam had spent many wet afternoons with her, watching _The Great British Bake-Off_ and learning the basics of baking. She’d taught him patience and that mistakes happened. Not every cookie came out perfectly, but there was no sense crying over it. He just had to do better the next time.

Adam slipped Crowley some of his breakfast and dinner regularly, which helped. On the days Crowley couldn’t get into the city, he’d sit in the kitchen, giving the cook hungry eyes until she’d give him some of whatever she was making.

Aziraphale was right. That worked much better than stealing.

Crowley wasn’t exactly gaining weight – his commutes across the city coupled with his sleepless nights kept him violently thin. But he was functioning. That was all that mattered to him.

He rolled over, gripping the football with his claws and kicking it as if it was a rabbit in need of disemboweling.

“You’re not supposed to use your hands!” Adam shouted at him.

Crowley released the ball and trotted away as one of the children kicked the ball back into play.

_He doesn’t need me so much anymore,_ Crowley thought with a mixture of approval and regret.

It was nice to see Adam growing up. He had more confidence now. More standing on his own, less using his cat as a security blanket. It was nice… but it also left a lonely ache in Crowley’s chest.

He settled down, watching one of the security guards calm two children who’d gotten into a tussle over the ball. Within moments, the argument was forgotten in favor of continued play.

For individuals unversed in childcare, the security guards affably put up with a lot. They’d tolerated Adam’s questions and following them around when he was small. When he’d been old enough to actually play with, they’d taught him games and rough housing. They filtered little of what they said, and from them Adam learned about war and killing in less glamorous terms than his storybooks.

The game grew increasingly heated as the score tied. The kids charged across the lawn, less focused on strategy and more on simply gaining control of the ball.

That was when the gardener arrived.

“Oye!” he bellowed. “You monsters get your filthy mitts off the boy!”

Crowley sat up very straight, his tail twitching rapidly.

Someone halted the ball as the ragged and wild-haired gardener stormed through the midst of the players, heedlessly shoving children from his path. “You!” He bore down on an unfortunate child with a scowl. “I saw that! Stealing the ball from Adam.”

“It’s a legal move,” the girl shot back defiantly.

“You shouldn’t be stealing anything,” he fumed. “If he wants the ball, he gets it.”

“That’s not how it works,” Adam said slowly.

“It is.” The gardener’s voice turned silky, and he half bowed as he turned toward Adam. “You can have whatever you desire.”

“Anything?” Adam asked thoughtfully.

“Anything,” the gardener insisted, leaning forward eagerly.

Adam looked around at the field. “I want to get back to the game,” he announced and charged the much-larger child with the ball.

The gardener was nearly flattened by the resulting stampede.

Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the gardener as he stormed away. A moment later, Crowley spotted Nanny leave the house and pursue the gardener.

The cat’s hackles rose. Keeping undercover, he stalked after them.

Behind him, the game continued, but Crowley had little fear for Adam’s safety. The kids might knock each other about, but the guards would keep it from getting out of hand. And the housekeeper had come out to watch. Several of the kids were hers, and she’d been the mother Adam needed after his last nanny had been shown the door.

With Adam in good hands, Crowley felt safe to explore more nebulous threats.

He couldn’t say why he’d been distrustful of the nanny and gardener at the start. Something had made his fur rise at the first sight and scent of them. Nothing since then had calmed his unease. He didn’t like the things they said to Adam. Or the way they looked at Adam. As if he was a prize to be won in a game.

But what were they playing?

And were they on the same side or not?

Crowley couldn’t tell most of the time.

He just knew they were both against him.

He heard voices ahead and flattened himself to the ground. Inching forward, he flared his wide ears.

“…was observing the whole time. There wasn’t any danger to the boy,” Nanny was snarling.

“You should have seen the game was set up properly,” the gardener insisted. “All that _fair play_ and _taking turns_. They’re filling his head with the wrong sort of ideas. He’ll never lead if his thinking is all broken like that.”

“Pick your battles, you idiot,” Nanny snapped.

“Idiot?!”

“Keep your voice down.” Nanny’s voice dropped. “We need to get him away from the other humans to properly educate him. Next Saturday he’s supposed to visit a museum. I’ll make sure he never gets there. I’ll have all afternoon to convince him of his proper place in the world.”

“ _You’ll_ have all afternoon?! What about me?!”

“Don’t be silly. You’re incompetent at persuasion.”

“Incompetent? Do you know how many souls I’ve damned to Hell?”

Nanny flicked her hand dismissively. “This is real work. Leave it to the professionals.”

The gardener rounded on her in fury enough to make birds take flight.

Crowley crept back to the football game.

Next Saturday, they said? Not if he had anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Three Little Kittens](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46968/the-three-little-kittens-they-lost-their-mittens) By Mother Goose


	7. To London to Visit the Queen

“We’re definitely lost,” Adam informed Crowley. Despite being alone on an unfamiliar street of London with no protection save a cat, he said this without fear. Just a statement of facts.

“That was the plan,” Crowley agreed, purring to himself in a self-satisfied way.

Nanny had arranged to separate Adam from his security detail and tutor. But while she was arranging that, Crowley had quietly lured Adam into a shop and out the back door. Once out of the alley and back onto a busy road, he’d let Adam confidently try to find their way back where they belonged, getting himself hopelessly lost in the process.

Adam grinned to his feline companion. “They’ll probably send out search parties. Maybe Nanny will cry. Not that she’ll mean it.” His smile widened. “We’ll just have to have an adventure until then.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets with the confidence of a ten-year-old who could conquer the world without effort and sauntered down the street.

Crowley trailed behind him with a look of amusement. He kept his eyes peeled for trouble, but he doubted they’d find much. Adam might have been sheltered in his privileged lifestyle, but he had a decent enough sense of how the world worked to avoid obvious dangers. And Crowley wouldn’t let anyone mistake Adam for an easy mugging target.

They looked in store windows for a time. Adam bought the greasiest food he could find and shared generously with Crowley.

Within an hour he’d had enough of adventuring. There was something alarming about having no idea where one was going or how to get anywhere which was beginning to prickle at his senses. He gave Crowley the helpless sort of look of someone who didn’t want to ask for help.

Crowley flitted his tail across Adam’s leg and took the lead.

It didn’t take long for them to reach a particular bookshop.

Adam pushed open the door at Crowley’s insistence. Inside they found a woman leaning on the counter talking in animated tones to the man across from her.

“…even if the photos were a hoax, there is plenty of evidence of massive, unknown creatures inhabiting remote areas of the world. But the governments are trying to cover it up.”

“What would it matter to Scotland if there was a big lizard in the loch?”

“That’s just an example! And maybe it’s not real. But you can’t discount the possibility of unexplained… Oh, hello, Mr. Crowley.” Anathema broke off her rant as she stooped to scoop Crowley into her arms. “Where have you been lately?”

Adam frowned, watching Crowley purr and arch into Anathema’s scritching. “He doesn’t let strangers do that.”

“Strangers?” Anathema smiled and nuzzled Crowley’s belly. “We’re hardly strangers.”

“Angel!” Crowley called. “I’m being assaulted!”

“You don’t seem to be struggling, my dear,” Aziraphale replied as he sauntered out of the shelves. “Wherever have you been keeping yourself?” He planted his paws on Anathema’s shin and stretched as high as he could.

“Little busy lately.” Crowley flipped out of Anathema’s arms and practically landed on top of Aziraphale. He swiped his tongue across the Siberian’s ear. “But I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in.”

Adam stared at the cats. “Is this where you go when I’m at school?”

Newt looked surprised. “He’s your cat? We thought he was a stray.”

Adam looked offended. “He’s no stray!”

Anathema tried to be tactful. “Newt just means we’ve worried. Since he’s so skinny.”

Adam’s expression turned even more sullen. “I feed him! He just won’t eat cat food.”

Crowley twined around Adam’s ankles. “Be nice to my kid. He tries.”

Aziraphale’s whiskers drew forward, and he stepped toward Adam. “Is this your human? You didn’t tell us you had a human.”

Above, the humans were engaging in a similar conversation while they explained Crowley’s frequent visits to the shop and assured Adam that he ate often enough that the boy didn’t need to worry too much about his pet.

The cats jumped onto the counter and settled together, watching the humans with amusement.

Adam ruefully fished out his cell phone and called one of the security guards with his location. He assured them he was fine, that they didn’t need to hurry, and could they please not tell Nanny? Finished, he looked down at the magazine Anathema had left on the counter. “What’s the Loch Ness…?”

“Oh, that’s just a publicity stunt,” Anathema said airily. “There are much more likely cryptids in other places.”

“What’s a cryptid?”

“It’s a place with coffins,” Newt supplied, earning a scathing look from Anathema.

Anathema launched eagerly into descriptions of the paranormal, fascinating Adam with a talk which rapidly turned to telepathy, ley lines, astral projection, and more.

“How come they don’t teach this stuff in school?” Adam demanded.

An hour later, a dark car pulled up outside the shop, and two armed and muscular individuals arrived to collect Adam.

The boy gathered his cat into his arms. “Bye, Newt. Bye, Anathema. Thanks for telling me all that stuff.” He wavered uncomfortably, noticing the wide-eyed way they stared at the security guards. “Maybe… um… maybe I could come back some time?”

Newt stopped staring and smiled. “Your cat’s dating the shop manager. Of course you’re welcome anytime.”

=^-^= 

Adam winced as Nanny slammed the door on her way out, having delivered a rant loud enough to shake the Heavens. The boy sighed and flopped onto his bed, silently bemoaning the loss of video games, computer, and ‘all sullying of the holy temple’. He wasn’t sure what that meant, so he decided not to worry about it.

Crowley wriggled out from under the bed and draped himself across Adam’s chest.

The boy grinned at the cat. “Worth it,” he whispered.

Crowley purred in reply.

Adam’s expression grew thoughtful. “Do you suppose it’s true? The governments covering up aliens visiting us with messages of cosmic harmony? And what’s cosmic harmony? Is that like the music they play in the planetarium shows? Cuz that always puts me to sleep.”

He yawned and settled back, his fingers idly tracing patterns in the cat’s fur. “Might be nice to meet people from other planets. I bet they have some wicked games. Like football… but with comets or something. Maybe they have cats too. But… with extra legs and antennae.” He yawned. “And they’re blue.” He eyed Crowley sleepily. “Maybe you’re an alien. But you’re a nice one.”

Crowley licked his hand. He remained purring on Adam’s chest until he was certain the boy was asleep. Then he crept to the end of the bed and crouched down to wait for the shadows to appear.

=^-^= 

Aziraphale pretended to read while he studied the cat sprawled beside him.

Crowley, apparently asleep, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny.

Aziraphale nudged another page over and tried to concentrate on Johnathan Harker’s escape from Dracula’s manor. His focus continued to be drawn to his companion.

“Do I have something in my whiskers?” Crowley asked, opening one eye.

Aziraphale jumped guiltily.

Crowley raised his head. “What’s wrong, Angel?”

Aziraphale licked his nose. “Just… You never told me anything about your human.”

Crowley shifted uneasily and began washing one paw.

Aziraphale felt a rush of sympathy. “They’re not cruel, are they?”

“No,” Crowley said quickly. “Not to me anyway.”

Aziraphale sat up, looking horrified. “Is someone hurting that poor boy?”

Crowley halted his grooming and stared silently at his paw.

Aziraphale edged in closer and lay down once more, his body half draped over Crowley’s. “Is there something I can do…?”

“You already do,” Crowley whispered. He took a shaky breath and buried his muzzle in Aziraphale’s ruff. “I don’t know how I could have coped the past few months if you hadn’t found me.”

Aziraphale curled him close, wrapping Crowley securely in his embrace. He waited as the lanky cat’s shaking slowly subsided.

“I can’t explain it,” Crowley said at last. “I don’t understand it, really. There’s just… these _things_ that come in the night.”

“What kind of things?”

“Voices. And… cold? Oppression? They say things to Adam. Or try to. I won’t let them near him.”

It didn’t occur to Aziraphale to doubt a word of it. If a human had said such things, he’d have been skeptical. But a cat was a sensible creature which saw no reason to lie to another cat. And this was Crowley. Aziraphale was prepared to believe him implicitly.

“Can you hear what they say?” he asked.

“That… that Adam could change everything.”

“Children do have that potential.”

“Not like that. They whisper that Adam could just… change the world if he wanted. Just like that.” His tail lashed once in emphasis. “And they have ideas of what he could do.”

“Bad ideas?”

“Just… ideas.” Crowley pulled a distance away, staring earnestly at Aziraphale. “They’ve been trying to tease at his mind for years. It used to be once in a while. Now it’s every night.”

“Is that why you’re always so tired?”

Crowley’s tail twitched with increased agitation. “Someone has to look out for him. And it sure isn’t his nanny.”

“His nanny?”

“There’s something wrong with her. She says things to him like the voices do, except when he’s awake. She tried to get him off alone yesterday. That’s why I brought him here. So long as she doesn’t know about this place…”

“Of course. He’s welcome here anytime. You both are.” Aziraphale’s blue eyes gazed solemnly into the other cat’s amber ones. “I would do anything for you.”

Crowley stared back, his eyes dampening with emotion. Then his head was nuzzled beneath Aziraphale’s chin, his paws were wrapped around the Siberian’s neck, and the two cats had rolled together in an intertwining pile of limbs and fur.

They were still wrapped together when Newt returned from lunch.

He paused to survey them critically. “Right,” he said with a nod. “I’ll tell Madame Tracy she can go ahead and plan the wedding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat Where Have You Been](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pussy_Cat_Pussy_Cat), English Nursery Rhyme


	8. But What Shall We Do for a Ring?

Winter in St. John’s Wood was filled with mounds of puffy, gorgeous snow. If it turned to gray slush somewhere around Blackwall, no one really noticed enough to comment.

Except Anathema.

“Do you know the west end of London has had perfect weather for ten years?” she demanded to Newt over their shared meal of dosas and lentils.

(In the front window, the watching cats agreed that Anathema’s trend toward vegetarianism and healthy eating was a bad influence on Newt. He didn’t share fish and chips with them nearly as often anymore.)

“That must be nice for the zoo,” Newt replied innocently.

“I’m serious! Something strange is going on there. I’ve been researching the area. And my last reading of the ley lines…”

Newt listened seriously despite clearly only understanding a quarter of what she said. But he was a man in love. And also a man who generally accepted that other people understood the world better than he did. He couldn’t even figure out how to use a calculator without it rupturing.

“Do you think they’ll ever get around to kissing?” Crowley asked. At the moment he was pinned down, Aziraphale’s larger girth holding him captive, as the Siberian subjected Crowley to a brutally thorough grooming. Despite his skin starting to turn cherry red at the cat’s relentless tongue, Crowley’s eyes were sunken to slits and he wriggled with enjoyment.

“You know humans,” Aziraphale grumbled, putting out his claws to pin Crowley’s head in place as he dug his tongue deeper into the lanky cat’s ear. “They’re so slow to say what they mean and to act on their feelings.” He nibbled out a bit of dirt from just above Crowley’s eye.

“So you think there’s a witch or something in London?” Newt was asking. “Who just wants to have pleasant weather on the holidays?”

“It has to be more than that. But I’ve been everywhere, and I can’t sense anything. I’m going to try again tomorrow night.”

“At night? By yourself? There’s all sorts of loonies wandering around London at night.”

“I have a bread knife. Anyway, I’ve done it before. I met your boss one time. That sergeant fellow.”

“Exactly! You never know what crazies you might run into.”

Crowley tried to raise his head to get a look at Newt’s flailing hands.

Aziraphale sank his teeth into the back of Crowley’s neck and forced his head down. He shifted, his entire body coming to rest over the thin cat, his paws clasped possessively around him.

There was a sudden stillness as the cats realized of one accord how very intimate this had suddenly become. 

Crowley let out a meek whine, turning his head just enough in the briefly relaxed grip for Aziraphale to see the trust in his eyes.

Reassured, Aziraphale bit down harder, letting out a warning rumble until Crowley lay still and submissive beneath him. Still using his weight to hinder any movement, he resumed grooming.

He liked this. Having someone to protect. To care for. Someone who trusted him even when he mauled them about. Someone who came to him in need and for whom he could provide.

And he liked what he got in return. The way Crowley doted on his interests. Always telling him about new restaurants he’d discovered. Always listening and asking questions when Aziraphale rambled about his reading. Always eager to initiate contact and to curl, warm and affectionate, beside him.

He felt so complete with Crowley around. Like he’d finally found what he’d been missing all this time.

If only it could last. But cats lived even shorter lives than humans.

And Crowley couldn’t have been young. Not if he’d been with Adam his whole life and had other humans before.

Counting years past was not in Aziraphale’s skill. He’d always lived contentedly in the ‘now’, thinking little further than his next meal, and thinking back only when necessity required him to do so. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been alive, and less certain how incongruous that was to other cats.

He just knew this pleasure couldn’t last.

But at least he had it now.

“…I can drive you to Regent’s Park,” Newt was saying. “It’s no trouble.”

“In that car of yours I’d be safer bicycling in the stree…” Anathema broke off as Newt leaned across the counter and kissed her.

Both cats looked up with avid interest.

The humans broke apart.

“Oh,” said Anathema.

Newt drew back. “S-sorry. That was… rude. And presumptuous. And… please don’t leave!” The last was in response to Anathema gathering up her books and slipping them into her bag.

“I have to if I’m going to be ready for tonight,” she said a little breathlessly. Her gaze was downcast, making absolutely certain she’d gotten everything into her bag. She raised her eyes at last. “Pick me up at seven?”

“…What? That is… yes! O-of course. I’ll… I’ll…” Newt waved helplessly as Anathema walked out of the shop. He sank slowly from view. There was a clatter and a thump as he vanished entirely beneath the counter.

“Well, he’ll be useless for the week,” Aziraphale sighed. “I really must think about getting more help in here.”

=^-^= 

Spring arrived in a rush, as if the universe was very excited for this particular spring to be the most beautiful since the dawn of creation.

In the Dowling garden, the plants sprang up eagerly, then wilted under the ruthless care of the gardener, who seemed even more tense and bad-tempered than previous springs. A whole tray of seedlings seemed to die the moment he decided to put them in the ground. Crowley carried one away before it could suffer the same fate as the others. Adam planted it in a coffee mug and settled it in his bedroom window where it grew peacefully undisturbed by the gardener’s machinations.

Schooling continued for Adam, now with more opportunities to play out of doors. His parents kept his schedule filled, but when he had opportunity, he’d often find his way to a certain bookshop in Soho.

Nanny still didn’t know about these excursions. She hadn’t ingratiated herself into the household in any way, and the rest of the Dowling staff (minus the gardener) agreed she was difficult to have around and utterly unfit for childcare. But with the Dowling parents oblivious and absent, the rest of the household had simply taken it upon themselves to raise Adam rather than trying to convince the Dowlings that they’d made a terrible choice in childcare workers.

So, Adam’s interest in the nice people in the bookshop passed unnoticed by the person who was supposed to be accountable for his every movement. When a free few hours appeared on a weekend, one of the security guards would drive him down to the bookshop and let him enter alone while the guard watched discretely from the café across the street.

It was mostly Anathema who Adam went to see. She was the one who taught him about air pollution, the destruction of the rainforests, nuclear energy, and the slaughter of whales. She also had plenty to say about government conspiracies, aliens, Atlantis, ghosts, Eastern mysticism, destiny, and a host of other topics.

Anathema believed things very strongly in a great lump of certainty which shouldn’t have been shakable. Curiously, though, she was finding a sensible and bumbling clerk in a Soho bookshop to be capable of shaking some of her blind foundation.

Because while Anathema (and Adam by extension) might have drowned in the sheer horrors of the world, Newt was the sort to take innocent delight in a news story about a pigeon and a cat becoming best friends. And there was something grounding in him pasting up flyers in the bookshop window about park clean-ups and charity fundraisers that reminded them to find some hope in the world.

Adam always returned from his talks with Anathema feeling older, wiser, and that the world was a weirder place than he’d previously believed.

He talked about it with the other adults in his life and received conflicting answers.

“Ghosts?” said the housekeeper. “No, I’ve never seen one, but my sister thought she did. Of our granddad. No, it wasn’t spooky. No pea soup or peeling wallpaper. She just said sometimes she’d see him standing at the window or looking at our old photographs on the walls. Eventually, she stopped seeing him, so I suppose there was no harm in it. She did have a book on hauntings you could borrow…”

“Nuclear energy?” the tutor said. “I’ve read it’s not as dangerous as some people say. We can look up some articles on different viewpoints if you’d like…”

“The rainforest?” the cook said. “No, I’ve never been there, but it’s awful how many people don’t care about the environment. That’s why we buy locally sourced goods and eat a minimal amount of beef in this household. I can show you a website for choosing foods and products…”

“Atlantis?” said the nanny. “It was destroyed centuries ago, and the perpetrator is locked away. What kind of nonsense have you been filling your head with, Adam? We should be discussing military strategy…”

“Tibet?” said the gardener. “What’s a Tibet? You should be coming up with ways to curse and torture your enemies…”

Adam thought the biggest lesson he learned from the bookshop was that there were many places to get conflicting information, and some people were more worthwhile sources than others when it came to understanding the world.

=^-^= 

Madame Tracy insisted upon a spring wedding. She decorated in white blossoms and daffodils.

There was debate about where the wedding ought to take place, and if religion should play a part in the ceremony. Although Madame Tracy did look into having the ceremony on the shadow of the lions in Trafalgar Square, she ultimately decided the bookshop was properly intimate and appropriate.

Shadwell had a lot of words about this being even more ridiculous than people giving funny names to cats, but he came along when he heard there would be cake.

Really, the assortment of food was excellent and quite varied. Even Anathema had agreed to forgo any vegetarian leanings in favor the preferences of the happy couple.

Aziraphale looked fetching and proud in a new black bow tie. Crowley suffered the top hat to be tied to his head with less good humor, until Aziraphale told him he looked handsome. After that, he strutted around the bookshop and wouldn’t let Adam take it off for an hour.

Madame Tracy officiated. The cats sat attentively in the front window, only occasionally yawning or batting at the decorations. The ceremony wasn’t long, and Madame Tracy was soon pronouncing them ‘Mr. and Mr. Fell’ while Newt threw petals and Adam played _Three Blind Mice_ on his recorder.

Afterwards came dinner, with the cats gleefully enjoying the first choice of food.

The cake was cut and the cats shared a piece, getting into the spirit enough to swipe each other with frosting before retreating for some mutual grooming.

“A wedding is a beautiful thing, isn’t it, Mr. Shadwell?” Madame Tracy said with tears in her eyes. “It makes me long for another.” She gazed hopefully at him.

Shadwell studied the ground. “Aye,” he mumbled, blushing bright red and finding reason to stomp off.

Madame Tracy watched him with a secretive smile.

They’d made up a ‘honeymoon suite’ for the cats in the storage room, but Crowley followed Adam out of the door when he left, and the humans gave up trying to get the cats to stay together after Aziraphale fell asleep on the cake platter and refused to assist in encouraging his new husband to spend the night with him.

“Maybe marriage is different for cats,” Anathema explained to the disappointed Adam.

“Maybe they don’t know what’s happening and think they’ll get fed this well every day from now on,” Newt suggested, earning him a swat from Anathema.

Whatever the cats thought of the ceremony, the humans had to agree they seemed perfectly happy with their arrangement. 

So they left it at that.

=^-^= 

It was about this time that Anathema noticed three peculiar things. She should have noticed sooner, but her mind had been so distracted that she failed to realize something curious.

The first was that Adam had no aura. 

The second and third were that the cats did.

The latter two weren’t surprising. Every living thing had some form of aura. But the cats had large and vibrant auras – the sort found on highly self-aware beings with spiritual understanding. And the colors! Mostly white, interlaced with vibrant gold. Crowley’s was a much darker gold – amber like his eyes with a jagged quality to it. Aziraphale’s gold was paler and swirled in elegant loops.

This was bewildering enough, but Adam’s lack of aura was alarming. No one should be lacking, especially not someone who seemed healthy, well-adjusted, and creative. Yet there was nothing to see.

She told Newt her confusion one day. He listened seriously, then asked if it was rude to be looking up people’s auras without their permission.

He later said she might look at his anytime she liked.

She chose to kiss him rather than slapping him for the terrible attempt at a pickup line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Owl and the Pussycat](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43188/the-owl-and-the-pussy-cat) by Edward Lear


	9. A Dog's a Dog, a Cat's a Cat

“What’s wrong with him?” Crowley asked as he leaped up to join Aziraphale in the window. He swiped a paw through his whiskers, dislodging the breakfast crumbs. 

Aziraphale glanced across the store at Newt who was moodily shelving books with more force than met with Aziraphale's approval. The cat sighed dramatically. “Anathema hasn’t been here in two days. Newton’s a bit tetchy without her.” 

Newt and Anathema’s relationship had hit a plateau somewhere around holding hands in public and sometimes vanishing among the shelves when no customers were around (Crowley liked hitting the bell above the door just to see them scurry out in an embarrassed panic). Anathema never invited Newt back to her place, and was rather cagy about how she spent her time, besides wandering the western end of the city while grumbling about ley lines. 

Newt would have invited her to his place, but his roommate was a very invasive chaperone. 

Shadwell had gotten himself arrested for disorderly conduct. He’d spent an overnight in jail and agreed to community service with ill-humor. But Tracy worried that he couldn’t look after himself so well anymore. Since he wouldn’t take the hints to move in with her, she’s matched him and Newt as roommates.

The arrangement wasn’t exactly enjoyed on either side. Newt wasn’t fond of being awoken at all hours by Shadwell’s ranting and Shadwell could have done without Newt trying to clean. But Shadwell never suggested Newt go elsewhere, and Newt never threatened to leave. 

Crowley scoffed and licked his paw clean of crumbs. “Anathema’s been distracted lately. Have you noticed?” 

“You mean all that mumbling?” Aziraphale’s ears flattened with concern. “Yes, the poor girl has been out most nights for the past few weeks. I’ve heard her murmuring about ‘running out of time’ and ‘have to find him’.” 

“Him who?” Crowley asked. “Someone besides Newt?” 

“I hope not. The poor boy is utterly infatuated with her.” 

“Not that it helps him spot the clues. A proper tom would have had her full of kittens by now.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphaled sighed. “She’s practically tail-averted for him, and he thinks she’s content with their mutual grooming. A pity. Their kittens would be adorable. Provided they got her looks and his temperament. And her brains.” 

Crowley stopped washing. He stared at the ground for some time, speaking at last in a low voice. “We’ll never have kittens.” 

Aziraphale looked sharply at him. 

Crowley nervously licked his nose. “Does it bother you? A pedigree like yours...” 

“My dear.” Aziraphale bumped his forehead against Crowley’s. “I don’t mind in the slightest. I’m busy enough with my humans, and you have your kitten already to raise.” 

Crowley snorted. “He’ll be eleven tomorrow. He’s hardly a kitten.” 

Aziraphale sat straighter, his attention caught by a figure coming toward the store. “Ah. This will improve Newton’s temper.” 

Anathema dashed into the shop. “I can’t stay!” she panted. “I just needed to check something.” She vanished into the occult section. 

Newt dropped an armload of books and hurried after her. “Wait, please!” 

Aziraphale hissed and sprang to the floor, stalking toward the discarded books with hackles bristling. “Newton, we have discussed your clumsiness in the past. Romance is no excuse for poor book handling!” 

“Not now, Newt,” Anathema said breathlessly as she shoved several books into her shoulder bag.

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” 

“The battery died. I keep forgetting to charge it.” 

“And you haven’t been here in days.” 

“Something’s come up. I’ll explain later.” 

Newt stared fretfully at her, rubbing his hands awkwardly. “You have to pay for those,” he blurted out at last. 

Crowley groaned. “Smooth, lover-boy.” 

“Newt! I’ll bring them back!” 

“You... you still have to... fill out something to say that you’re borrowing them.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Anathema groaned. Still, she followed Newt to the counter. 

Aziraphale trotted along with them. “No, I quite agree with Newt. We can’t allow the books to leave here without a proper record of where they’ve gone. Good thinking, young man. Which ones did she...” The Siberian’s nose twitched with interest. “Well now, that isn’t one of ours.” 

“Is something wrong?” Newt asked as Anathema piled books on the counter and grabbed a pen. 

“It’s... sort of a family thing. It’s complicated. I just... need to find something. Someone.” 

“Can I help?” 

“I have what I need, thank you,” Anathema said crisply. “No, Aziraphale! Stop that!” She pushed aside the cat who’d planted his paws on her leg and was trying to reach his head into her bag. 

Crowley sat up with an indignant rumble. “Something wrong?” he asked Aziraphale. 

The Siberian circled around Anathema’s ankles, his eyes on her bag. “She has a book in there. An old one.” 

“And you want it?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale reared up again only to be pushed down. 

Crowley took a moment to assess the situation. “Alright.” He leaped onto the counter, meowed loudly, and launched himself into Anathema’s arms. 

Anathema broke off her argument with Newt as she stumbled back, trying to juggle the flailing cat. Her bag slid down to her elbow. 

Aziraphale snagged it with his claws, yanking hard and causing Anathema to further stumble. She lost her grip on the bag. Books, papers, divining equipment, and a bread knife tumbled across the floor. 

Swift as a chunky cat could move, Aziraphale shoved the book beneath a shelf and nudged another into its place. 

Crowley had escaped back onto the counter where he complained loudly about clumsy humans, keeping Newt and Anathema focused on him until Aziraphale had completed his theft. Then he retreated to the front window, grooming his sparse fur in a discontented manner. 

Newt hurriedly helped Anathema clean up, earning a glare and harsh words before Anathema stormed from the shop. Alone, Newt sank into his chair, his head in his hands and a miserable cloud hovering over him. 

Crowley joined Aziraphale amidst the shelves. “What is it?” 

“I don’t know,” the Siberian replied, peering down at the book he’d stolen. “Something old. And beloved. Can you sense it?” 

“No.” Crowley circled the book, unimpressed with the reward of their caper and recognizing that too-focused look in Aziraphale’s eyes. “You won’t be moving until you’ve finished it, will you?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale mumbled as he nudged open the cover. 

Crowley snickered and licked Aziraphale’s neck. “I’ll leave you to it.” He started for the door. 

Aziraphale tore his eyes briefly away from the book. “Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“No. It’s Adam’s birthday. I’ll keep an eye on things there. And be there to cheer him up.” 

Aziraphale frowned. But Crowley slipped out the door before he could ask. 

Aziraphale’s focus returned to the book. “ _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_ ,” he murmured. An eager chill swept down his spine. He settled down to learn what there was to know. 

=^-^=

“I hate birthdays,” Adam grumbled to Nanny as she pressured him into a suit. 

“You’ll have a lovely time, little fellow,” Nanny replied, trying out her latest attempt at a pet name. “Today is an auspicious day. You’re turning eleven years old. That’s practically a man. Certainly old enough to meet your destiny.” 

“I don’t want a destiny,” Adam complained as he tugged irritably on his tie. “I want a _real_ party. With my _real_ friends. Not the stupid people that my parents make me invite.” 

“They’re no stupider than any other humans,” Nanny snapped. “Now stop fidgeting and smile. You’re going to get wonderful presents today. Maybe even a dog.” 

“I don’t want a dog! I already have a cat.”

“Wouldn’t you like a nice big, strong dog? One which could protect you and slaughter your enemies?”

“I don’t have any enemies that need slaughtering.”

Nanny began to look exasperated. “It never hurts to be prepared. Now do sit still and think of a nice name for your dog until the party.” She slammed the bedroom door sharply on her way out.

Adam slumped into his desk chair and hugged his arms around his chest in deliberate wrinkling of the suit. “Stupid birthday.” 

Crowley leaped into his lap, helpfully rubbing as much fur as he could over the clothes. 

Birthdays had rarely been enjoyable for Adam. The guest list was always children of parents that the Dowlings wished to impress, not anyone of Adam’s choosing. The activities and food were always elaborate, but rarely catered to a child’s taste. Even the presents were usually meant to show off wealth and status more than Adam’s hobbies. 

This party wasn’t looking like it would be any different than the ones before. 

“You can stay away,” Adam said generously to Crowley. “I’ll save you some cake. If you’ll eat it.” 

Crowley purred, trying to convey his apology that, no, he wouldn’t dare eat anything today. Last year’s birthday had nearly been fatal to him. He wasn’t repeating his mistakes. 

And he didn’t like all this talk about dogs. 

=^-^=

“This party’s rubbish,” one of the children complained, elbowing Adam as if it was his fault. 

Adam elbowed her back, and a brief fight broke out until the children were forced back to listening to the classical music recital which was their birthday entertainment. 

Crowley hid beneath the buffet table, his eyes on the nanny and gardener. The pair were agitated. Frequently checking the time and looking nervously at one another. 

“What are you getting for your birthday?” a guest asked Adam as he and several children he considered decent company abandoned the music in favor of sifting through the buffet for things an eleven-year-old would actually eat and then fleeing across the lawn before they were made to return to make polite small-talk with the adults. 

“Dumb stuff,” Adam grumbled. “Nanny says I’m getting a dog.” 

“One of those big ones?” another child asked with interest. “Like a guard dog?” 

Adam’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t want some smelly, giant dog.” 

The gardener had attempted to follow them, but Crowley tripped him and kept him occupied until Adam and his friends had disappeared under the hedge and into the neighbor’s less-manicured lawn. 

“If I got a dog.” Adam said thoughtfully, “I’d want a little one. The kind you can have fun with. The kind my cat could stand up to if he wanted. They could be best friends that way.” 

Crowley jogged up to the party, a little breathless and a lot sore. But it was worth it as far as he was concerned to hear the gardener swear and to give Adam a little peace on his birthday. He wasn’t exactly thrilled that the conversation was turning to dogs in a more favorable light, though. He didn’t need a dog best friend, thank you. 

“A little one?” a child suggested. “Maybe one of those tiny huskies?” 

“Not a purebred,” Adam insisted. “A mongrel. With one ear that goes the wrong way. The kind that’s smart and can chase rabbits and learn tricks.” He slouched against a tree with a confident nod. “That’s my dog. And I’ll call him...” 

He looked down at the cat sitting expectantly beside him. The people at the bookshop called the cat ‘Crowley’, since Madame Tracy said that was what the cat’s spirit called itself. But Adam had never gotten out of the habit of calling the cat by precisely what it was.

“I’ll just call him Dog,” he said. “It’s easier that way.” 

It was, of course, at that moment, that a dog of identical appearance to Adam’s imagination emerged around the corner of the hedge and ran to Adam as if it had no other purpose in the world but to be at his side. 

Crowley flattened the dog to the ground with a violent tackle before it could get that far. 

"Stop that!” Adam demanded, scooping the cat off the bewildered dog. “You’re both going to get along.” 

Adam squatted down, hefting Crowley onto his shoulders as he did. He put out his hands to the dog, who hastened into his embrace. 

There were proper ways for a small dog to behave. Most of which would not be at all proper for a dignified and fearsome hellhound. But this was no massive, slobbering, murderous creature. It was a small dog who suddenly found himself compelled to leap about on his hind legs and lick the face of the boy leaning over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Ad-dressing of Cats](https://www.knowyourcat.info/lib/addressingcat.htm) By T. S. Elliot


	10. What Rough Beast

Adam awoke to the soft snores of a small dog. 

It wasn’t quite dawn. Dog was curled at the foot of his bed, as comfortable as if he’d always been there. 

Crowley sat on the windowsill cleaning his paws. He paused long enough to give Adam a slow blink, then resumed grooming. 

Adam squinted at the pile of presents he didn’t want which were heaped on his desk. 

He’d been told he was being ungrateful for complaining about his parties. He ought to have been thankful to have a family with the wealth to provide him with parties and presents. 

He understood... but it would have been nice if his birthdays felt like more than opportunities for his parents to show off.

What Adam wanted was freedom. To not be pursued by security. To not have teachers and parents and a nanny hounding him about proper behavior. To have _just one day_ to do whatever he pleased. To spend a birthday exactly as he wanted. 

_I could have that,_ he thought, ideas slowly coming into focus. _Today could be my birthday. I could sneak out. Do whatever I want all day. Why not? I’m eleven now. That’s old enough to make my own decisions._

He sat up quickly. “I’m sneaking out,” he whispered to the animals. “You can come with me. If you want.” 

He dressed in his favorite clothes – regular kid clothes - and stuffed his pockets with money. He tip-toed out of the room with the dog following and the cat leading. 

Adam was certain they could get out undetected, and, curiously, they ran into no members of the household. The security cameras were either off or looking the other way as they crossed the grounds. 

They fled across the lawn to a gap in the hedge that Adam thought ought to exist. Once through, they cut across the neighbor’s lawn, reached the street, and cheered for their newly gained freedom. 

Adam ran several blocks with Dog leaping gleeful rings around him and Crowley trailing and occasionally showing his claws when Dog grew too exuberant. Soon they’d reached the tube station. 

Adam stared at the tube map seriously for some minutes. Making a decision, he climbed aboard the proper train and off they went. 

It was then that their adventure ran into its first hitch. Dog, having never experienced a train before, was confused by the movement and very alert to the rumbling, which certainly sounded like a beast in need of fighting. He charged down the aisle, slavering and roaring with the ferocity of a very small dog. 

Some people laughed. The rest were upset. Adam was told he shouldn’t have brought the dog on the train, that he was a bad owner for not having a leash, and that someone would certainly take his pet away if he didn’t treat it better. 

Adam held Dog bundled in his arms for the rest of the ride, a tight-lipped expression on his face as he tried not to let the condemnations ruin his perfect day. 

Returning to the street helped matters. Adam found a street vendor from which to buy pastries and hot chocolate. He shared with the animals as they walked. 

Entering Kensington Gardens, Adam led the way to the statue of Peter Pan. He sat cross-legged on the podium, gazing up at the bronze child. 

“He never grew up,” he said to Crowley, who sat beside him (Dog had wandered off to chase squirrels). “He just played and played and made his own world where he could play all the time. He got to play pirates and natives and treasure hunters forever. Nobody told him what to do. No bedtimes, or parties, or shirts with stiff collars. Whatever he wanted.” 

Reflection was interrupted by angry adults who informed Adam that off-leash dogs weren’t allowed, and he was a bad pet owner for letting his dog run wild – harassing wildlife, eating trash, and possibly running into traffic. 

It was clear they’d have no peace until Dog had a collar. They searched for a pet shop which was open that early. Luck was with Adam, as it often was, and Dog was soon properly attired. The shop owner reminded Adam that his dog would also need a license... and could he please do something about his cat which was threatening the boa constrictor in the front window. Also, the cat should be on a leash as well. 

Crowley did not take that suggestion lightly and bolted out the door before Adam could consider a harness. 

They roamed deeper into London, the adventure frequently being derailed. Dog was denied entry most places that Adam tried to go, and people were constantly stopping to ask him where his parents were. 

He found other children to play with briefly, but they had places to be and ran off too soon. He ate at an outdoor café with the air of someone determined to have a good time despite the setbacks. 

“It isn’t fair!” he complained to Newt when wandering inevitably brought him to the bookshop (where Newt informed him some of his caretakers had already stopped by in search of him). “There’s so much I want to do, and I’m not allowed to do any of it.” 

“You _are_ a kid,” Newt reasoned. 

“I’m eleven!” Adam shot back. “Seems to me turning eleven ought to be a bigger thing. Adults can’t ask me how many I am on my fingers anymore. Not being able to tell your age on your fingers ought to make you an adult.” 

Newt, absorbed with his own problems, had less reassurances than he might otherwise have had. 

Nor was Anathema the least bit reasonable when she burst through the door in frantic search of a book she’d lost. 

In the front window, Aziraphale wrapped his tail around the book, effectively hiding it with his fluff. He pretended to be asleep while the humans searched. 

Aziraphale had refused to leave the bookshop the night before and had barely wrenched himself away from the book long enough for breakfast. Crowley, accustomed to Aziraphale’s distraction, curled up beside him and accepted that he’d receive no attention until the volume was concluded. 

The unsuccessful hunt for Anathema’s book left Adam intrigued with ideas of professional book thieves. Or perhaps of becoming a great detective. He set out again to track down the missing book.

He played at being a detective for a while, then switched to being a burglar and crept through narrow streets and scuttled onto trains, getting himself thoroughly lost until he stopped long enough to pay attention to the announcements. 

The day of unsuccessful adventuring improved briefly with ice cream, and dropped back to melancholy as construction workers shouted at Adam to stop climbing on their equipment, police officers ordered him away from an accident, and a lorry driver wouldn’t let him have a turn at the wheel. 

Adam decided it would be their faults if his potentially brilliant careers as an architect, detective, or race car driver were terminated before they could begin. 

Arriving home at last, Adam was confronted by worried and angry adults, a situation which worsened his temper. 

Being reminded of his standing, that he needed to be careful, that he was old enough to know better, but also not old enough to make his own decisions, and should have been more considerate of their feelings failed to have any positive effect. 

“What about _my_ feelings?” Adam protested. “Nothing bad happened.” 

But bad things _could_ have happened. That was the important part. Adam might have stepped into traffic, or been carried off by the sort of person who wanted to hurt children, or any number of calamities. 

“Can’t I go about where there _isn’t_ traffic?” Adam had asked. 

No, he was told. There was traffic everywhere. Cars and roads could be found crisscrossing London and encircling the whole of it. In fact, the adults said, there was a great, circular road which ran all the way around the whole of the London area which was too intimidating a road for Adam to ever cross on his own. 

Alone in his room, banned from electronic entertainment and birthday cake, Adam flopped sullenly on his bed. 

“Kids shouldn’t live like prisoners,” he complained to the ceiling. “We should be able to run around and not worry about traffic or villains, or whatever. Dogs too. Dogs shouldn’t have to be kept on leashes. Or made to sleep outside.” 

The last was because Dog was outside at the insistence of Nanny, who’d declared that Adam wasn’t responsible enough for a dog and carried the unfortunate mutt away. 

“If I was in charge,” Adam grumbled sleepily to Crowley (who had hidden when he’d seen that Nanny was in a pet-banning mood), “I’d get rid of all the roads. And the schools. And all the bad people. And kids could do whatever they wanted. And go wherever they wanted. And no one would tell them they couldn’t.” 

He fell asleep dreaming of statues in the park and cool grass beneath his bare feet and wild animals frolicking in his Neverland. 

Crowley started to curl up beside him when a frantic yelp drew him to the window. 

Outside, he saw the nanny dragging the squirming dog toward the waiting figure of the gardener. 

Crowley’s hackles stood on end. Nothing kind could be planned for the dog with that pair involved. He nudged open the window. 

With a paw on the trellis, he paused to look back at Adam. The voices would be coming soon.

But... the dog didn’t deserve whatever fate it was about to encounter. 

If he could just be quick... 

Crowley scrambled down the trellis and raced across the yard. 

“You’re a disgrace,” he heard the gardener declaring as he rounded the shed. “You were supposed to be a fearsome protector, and now look at you.” 

Dog yelped and struggled in Nanny’s vice-like grip.

Nanny shook him sharply. “Stop that!” She hoisted him into the air by the scruff, glaring eye-to-eye with him. “You should be thanking us. No one would want to be stuck in such a puny and pathetic form.” 

Dog whimpered that his master liked the way he looked. 

“Adam needs a real dog,” Nanny went on, “and you’ve failed at that.” She reached into her coat and removed a vial. “Once you’re gone, we’ll give Adam exactly what he needs.” 

Crowley launched himself from concealment and sunk his claws into the nanny’s shin. 

Nanny shrieked and stumbled forward, her grip weakening enough for Dog to yank free and stumble, wheezing, away from her flailing hands. 

The gardener grabbed for him, but Dog bit instinctively, crunching several fingers and causing the gardener to lurch back. 

Untangling his claws from Nanny’s pleated skirt, Crowley stationed himself between the dog and his attackers. 

Recovering from her surprise, Nanny laughed cruelly. “Well, this is convenient. We can eliminate both of you.” She turned to the Gardener with a smirk. “Maybe we should introduce them to their... replacement.” 

With a maniacal grin, the gardener produced a whistle and blew a shrill blast which made the animals cry with pain. The moment of pain turned to terror as _something_ emerged from the garden shed. 

Dog-shaped and glowing with hellfire, more teeth than a crocodile, and certainly a less pleasant disposition. The massive and deadly creature stalked toward the hapless pets. 

Crowley had met a lot of dogs. He’d learned most of them could be handled with a sharp set of claws and a confident attitude. He knew the worst possible thing one could do when confronted with a predator was to run. 

Confronted with this monstrosity birthed from the darkest pit of Hell, Crowley ran. 

Dog raced in his wake.

They fled through the gardens and across the lawn. Crowley dove through a gap in the hedge, Dog just behind. On the street, Crowley kept up his headlong pace, hiding at last beneath a car when the sounds of pursuit seemed to die. 

He could make out the outline of the creature pacing the edge of the Dowling’s property. It seemed that the monster would not pursue any further. 

“We have to go back,” Crowley gasped. “Adam needs us.” 

Dog whimpered agreement. He’d heard the voices the night before and witnessed Crowley’s distress. Clearly his master needed him. 

But despite the ingenuity of the cat and the loyalty of the dog, no way could be found past the beast which now guarded the grounds. 

For the first time, Adam’s dreams swirled with the whispers of the universe. 

_You can change things. You can make things happen. You are in control. You can do whatever you want. Show them all. Show everyone who rules the world. Make the world your own._

And in his dreams, Adam rebuilt his world. 

=^-^=

It started sometime around midnight. 

It began with a few late-night commuters complaining their engines weren’t working. 

Then it spread. 

Within minutes, every motorized vehicle in London and the area beyond had found itself lacking in a working engine. 

As the first light of dawn touched England, the roads vanished beneath a suddenly exploding layer of grass and flowers. 

Trees doubled and tripled in size. Tiny sprigs which would never hope to become trees broke through the sidewalks and raced to full height. 

In the London Zoo, the animals found their cages unlocked and thought it would be appealing to take a stroll. Pet store doors and cages opened at the same time. 

In Kensington Garden, Peter Pan climbed down from his rock with a host of bronze birds and rabbits crowding around him. 

In Trafalgar Square, the lions yawned and rose from their crouches, sauntering to the fountain to trade words with the now-capering bronze fish. 

The M-25 stopped being a road and became a wall. An impassable wall, though not of flame or any such material. Simply a great solid block separating one area of England from the rest of the world. 

And every human on the interior of the wall who had ever harbored ill intentions toward a child suddenly found themselves on the outside of said wall. 

None were more surprised than a certain gardener and nanny of an American ambassador's estate. 

“Whu...?” the gardener said intelligently. 

“Something’s gone wrong,” the nanny replied with a slightly better grasp upon the situation. 

In his bedroom, Adam awoke feeling refreshed and calm. He dressed himself and sauntered outside. 

A massive hellhound trotted up to him, waving its flaming tail and making happy doggy noises that it had found its master. 

Adam frowned. “You’re not my dog,” he said sharply. 

The hellhound shrank back. 

Adam scowled and pointed down the drive. “I don’t want you. Go away!” 

Shunned by its master and bereft of purpose, the hellhound slunk from the estate. 

Adam followed slowly, halting on the sidewalk just beyond his home. 

His real dog and cat appeared from beneath a car and ran to him. 

Adam squatted down to scratch their heads. He gazed out at the great expanses of meadows which had once been streets. Already, children were tumbling out of their homes to play. 

“This is my world,” Adam said quietly. “I can do whatever I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Second Coming](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43290/the-second-coming) by William Butler Yeats


	11. On the Challenge of the Page

Many people, upon meeting Aziraphale, formed three impressions. First, that he was intelligent for a cat. Second, that he was refined. Third, (if Crowley was nearby) that he was gayer than a caboodle of kittens who’d overdosed on catnip. 

All three were certainly true, except for the quantifying ‘for a cat’ stipulation on his intelligence. Aziraphale was intelligent, full stop. He could have proven it more, but he’d found the relaxed and lazy life of a cat to be too appealing to bother with attempting to control and manipulate his environment. So long as he had food and literature, his motivation to do more was entirely lacking. 

But this morning he was beginning to wonder if manipulating things might be a necessity. 

He’d been reading Anathema’s book, and what he understood of it filled him with dread. There were many things in it which he did not understand – his knowledge of events which happened beyond his immediate vicinity was limited – but he recognized enough of the predictions to believe this ‘Agnes Nutter’ had known what she was talking about. And if she was right, and this book was really as old as its scent proclaimed, the world was in trouble. 

And the world didn’t have long to survive. 

He uncoiled himself from the window and meandered into the back where neglected kibble could be found. A full belly seemed necessary for serious contemplation. 

Today was Friday. Apparently, the world was scheduled to end tomorrow. If an alternative couldn’t be found. 

Logically, the thing to do would be to find the antichrist and eliminate their influence. The trouble was, Aziraphale had a fairly good idea of who that was. And if he acted on his knowledge, Crowley would certainly never speak to him again. 

Somehow that seemed more important than the nebulous alarm of the world ending. 

But as he returned to the window and looked out at the street, he saw that perhaps it was too late to dread the end of the world. 

=^-^=

Adam strolled along lanes of grass, his hands in his pockets and satisfaction in his heart.

Dog raced in happy circles, pursuing squirrels wherever he pleased without fear of traffic. Other dogs had spilled from their houses. Soon a gleeful gang of canines was gallivanting in the streets. 

Crowley stalked along largely in the shadows. His thin hair stood on end and fear fluttered in his heart. He didn’t know what to think. The voices had whispered their poison to Adam. He could hear them echoing around the boy even now. The world had shifted. That had to be bad. 

But Adam looked so happy. 

And... was this really a bad thing? 

Certainly, the children who ran about with careless and shrieking delight didn’t seem to think so. And the horses, recently liberated from the local stables, who now graze contentedly, didn’t think so.

And the adults... didn’t seem to notice. 

That was the strangest part. The way the adults simply seemed to be getting on with their lives. Lacking in cars, they’d set off for work on foot. They walked briskly past children engaged in mud fights, horses eating their rose gardens, and statues out for morning strolls as if none of it was out of the ordinary. 

Mostly they just grumbled at how late they’d be. 

“Seems to me they can still take the tube,” Adam reasoned to one of the children he’d found to play with. 

“If the trains are still running,” the child replied. “If they try to walk, they might get eaten by the black swine.” 

“The what?” 

“I heard it from my brother! There are these giant pigs that live in the sewers and mutated from all the waste. If they catch you in the tunnels, they'll eat you.” 

“Really?” 

“It’s true! My brother said he saw one! He has all these books about Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster and stuff.” 

Adam sniffed scornfully. “I heard the Loch Ness monster is a fake.” 

“It isn’t! People just say it’s a fake to protect it from hunters. There’s loads of animals living all over the place that people say are fake so as to hide them.” 

Adam’s eyes glittered with interest. This fit right in with the conspiracy theories Anathema was always telling him about. And all doubts in such things seemed gone this morning. Adam’s view of the world had changed, and the impossible had suddenly become infinitely possible. 

“Can you show me these books?” he asked. 

=^-^=

“Is that Anathema’s book?” Newt demanded. 

He’d had to borrow Madame Tracy’s scooter (which was still operating for reasons unknown, although it did not seem to be burning petrol) to reach the bookshop. The commute had been interrupted by Boudica and her chariot circling him in a predatory manner and demanding he join her in battle. He’d left her arguing with Achilles and reached the shop in a breathless and still melancholy mood. 

Now he scooped up the book before Aziraphale could fight him for possession of it. “It was here all the time?” he marveled. “She’ll be so happy to have it back.” 

He rummaged through the scattered paperwork on the counter, finding at last the scrap on which Anathema had scrawled out the details of the books she’d borrowed. Yes, it had her address on it! 

Shrugging into his coat, he hurried for the door. 

He didn’t wonder or object as Aziraphale sprang into the scooter basket. 

=^-^=

“This is all your fault.” 

Nanny, occupied with pushing hard on the barrier, glared at the gardener. “How?!” 

The gardener scowled back. “You said you wanted the job inside the house. You said you’d be able to guide the brat. Now we can’t even get at the kid. Your fault.” 

“You’re the one who brought the dog!” 

“It was supposed to get rid of the cat! And you’re the one who said we should get rid of the dog!” 

“It was defective! I should have known you couldn’t come through on something as simple as a hellhound.” 

They argued heatedly, all the while trying everything they could think of to find their way through the barrier. 

Nothing worked. 

They’d chanted all manner of incantations at it, tried to dig under it, tried flying over it, acquired a breathtaking amount of dynamite from seeming midair, and eventually fallen to kicking it irritably. 

“I’m calling my office,” the nanny announced, pulling out an impossibly sleek cell phone. “Someone can descend and enter through the London entryway.” 

“Not alone, they’re not!” the gardener hissed and rushed off to find a car radio. 

=^-^=

“What about dinosaurs?” Adam asked. “Maybe they’re still secretly around.” 

A half dozen children sat in a ring together, eating ice cream from a cart which they’d found conveniently giving it away for free. The subject of cryptids had continued throughout the morning and led to similar themes. 

"You couldn’t hide a tyrannosaurus!” one child objected. “They’re as big as skyscrapers.” 

“Are not! I saw one in a museum! It can’t be big as a building if it’s _in_ a building.” 

“Maybe it was a little one. Like a baby. Anyway, there’s others that’re bigger. Big as skyscrapers.” 

“Maybe they live underground,” Adam said thoughtfully. “I read a book like that. Where the Earth is hollow and dinosaurs live way down inside it? Maybe that’s true...” 

=^-^=

“My book!” Anathema yanked the book out of Newt’s hands and whirled back into her flat without a pause to say ‘hello’. 

Newt blinked unsteadily and followed her inside. 

Aziraphale trotted through the door as if he owned the place. 

Cat and human were stopped cold at the sight of Anathema’s walls. 

Newspaper clippings were pinned everywhere. A massive map of London dominated one wall, stuck with pins and labeled string. A woodcut illustration of Baphomet hung in prominence with a list of crossed off names scrawled directly into the plaster beneath it. The whole flat was a disarray of scraps of papers, strings, notecards, surveyor's equipment, and crumpled scribblings. 

“So,” Newt said slowly, “you’re a crazy person.” 

=^-^=

A delivery man was making his way across Midwestern America. 

The day before he’d witnessed a pleasant desert region erupt back into war, which had been unsettling. Today he was dubiously eyeing the fast food establishment his directions had led him to with the hope that he could find a real place to eat before his plane took him back to England. 

Fortunately, his final delivery was within his own country. He wasn’t sure he could handle more extensive travel. 

Jet-lag was sure to make his driving unsteady. 

And the job certainly wasn’t worth his life. 

=^-^=

Madame Tracy wasn’t aware anything was amiss until her one o’clock appointment mentioned he’d been yelled at by Winston Churchill on his way into the building. Since he was not one of her séance attendees, Tracy was a touch concerned. But her leather bodice was chafing, and that was a more immediate concern. 

It was only when she stepped out to fetch some groceries that she realized the world had changed. 

“Mr. Shadwell!” she called, banging on her neighbor’s door and ignoring his whisky-induced moans of pain. “I think your witches might be more active than you thought!” 

=^-^=

There is a building in central London which humans simply don’t notice. 

It is a great, tall building which seems to stretch into the clouds even on cloudless days. 

The base of it is constantly covered in oozing, black mold, no matter the weather conditions. 

Rarely does anyone come in or out, but the beings who do are usually dressed rather oddly and inclined to mutter things about humans’ inferiority or uncomfortable corporations. 

Today, if anyone had looked, they would have seen quite a lot of beings on the other side of the glass. 

Some of them were dressed in smart, pale colored business suits. 

Some looked like they were auditioning for chorus parts in ‘ _Oliver!_ ’. 

What they had in common were identical expressions of bafflement and frustration. 

Despite all their clawing and pounding, the building doors refused to open. 

=^-^=

“...She was my ancestor,” Anathema explained to the avid audience of Newt and Aziraphale. “She left the book as a way to take care of her descendants. I was supposed to stop the world from ending. But I got it wrong somewhere. I can’t find the antichrist. And even if I did, I have no idea how to stop things from happening!” 

“She really predicted all this?” Newt asked. “The cars stopping and the statues moving?” 

“And more. It’s going to get worse if I don’t figure out what I’m supposed to do!” Anathema threw a handful of index cards helplessly into the air. 

“Well.” Newt rolled up his sleeves and began collecting cards. “I do work in a bookshop. I’m good at organizing things.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Aziraphale sighed. He leaped off the couch, picked up the nearest card, and offered it to Anathema. 

Anathema took it from him and turned the card over. 

‘ _Truste the man who cuums to thee_ ’, it read. 

Anathema surreptitiously wiped her eyes and joined Newt’s cleanup. 

“You said the world doesn’t end until Saturday?” he asked. 

“Yes?” 

He smiled at her. “Then we have time.” 

=^-^=

“They can’t get in!” Nanny fumed, crushing her cell phone in a very formidable grip. “The boy is in there alone. We can’t reach him!” 

“There’s always possession,” the gardener said slowly. 

Nanny sniffed contemptuously. “My side does not engage in possession.” 

The gardener grinned. “Then I’ll find the brat myself.” 

“No, you don’t! If you find a way in, I’m coming as well.” Nanny looked uneasy. “I’m just not sure how it’s done.” 

“You have to get rid of that body first.” 

“Discorporate myself?” Nanny looked horrified. “That’s so painful. And messy. And the paperwork.” She turned to study the barrier. “There must be a way that doesn’t involve-” 

Whatever else Nanny may have been musing was terminated by the gardener stabbing her repeatedly in the back with a garden spade. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for five years,” he muttered smugly. 

He waited until Nanny’s body had stopped twitching. Then he vanished into the ground. 

=^-^=

“We’re going to camp tonight,” Adam informed Dog and Crowley. “I’ve never been camping before. It’s going to be brilliant.” 

His rambling day had brought him to Hyde Park, and this seemed the perfect place to spend the night. He and several other children strung bedsheets over the playground structure, building forts which rivaled those of the lost boys of Neverland. They played and laughed together for hours, agreeing they’d live in the park forever and never go home. 

But as twilight fell, the children heard the siren’s call of homes and guardians. One by one, they slipped off into the growing darkness. 

Eventually Adam and his animals were alone. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Adam said with forced cheer. “You two are all I need. And anyway, tomorrow I have more friends coming.” 

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but the certainty was there. 

The world was changing. Things he’d hoped were true were coming true. Tomorrow the world would be even more interesting, he just knew it. 

And he wasn’t lonely at all, he insisted in his mind. He wasn’t missing the cook or the housekeeper or the security guards. 

He wanted to be alone. 

That’s what he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pangur Bán ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/48267/pangur-ban) translated by Seamus Heaney
> 
> [The Black Swine of the London Sewers ](https://anilbalan.com/2014/07/13/legend-of-the-black-swine/) are a real urban legend. And here I thought albino alligators in the New York sewers was weird.


	12. The Hopes so Juicy Ripening

Sunlight broke over London on Saturday morning to a world changed. Already sunlight had passed across sea monsters frolicking in the waters around Japan, drop bears assaulting the unwary of Australia, pirate ships cruising the waters near Indonesia, unicorns galloping the Mongolian steppes, Yeti exploring the Himalayas, and giant cats hunting in northern England. And, everywhere, dinosaurs. 

They’d come out of holes which led to hollow jungles beneath the Earth. Some were ridden by cave people and half-lizard humanoids. People snapped endless pictures, then got hastily out of the way as the dinosaurs roamed where they pleased, taking out buildings and bridges in their exploration of the surface. 

The surface was changing as well. More trees. Less cars. Less cages. Many more children on the streets and fewer adults with any idea of what was going on. 

Some places changed dramatically (Adam had some very specific ideas about America, for example). Others remained untouched. Minus the dinosaurs. And cryptids. And growing lack of transportation. 

In a park in London, the Adversary, the Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast Who is Called the Dragon, Prince of this World, awoke cold, stiff, and hungry. He sat up groggily, surveyed his domain, and flopped down with a groan of wishing for a real bed and a hot breakfast. 

=^-^=

“Good morning,” Aziraphale greeted Newt as he stumbled out of Anathema’s bedroom with rumpled hair and a dazed expression. “It was about time you two got on with it, but now can we get back to important matters? Like finding me some breakfast?” 

“Where’s Anathema?” Newt asked the cat blearily. 

“In the shower,” Aziraphale replied. “Which you should consider as well. Honestly, you smell like a horny teenager.” As Newt staggered back toward the bedroom, Azirpahale called after him. “We’re going to have a talk about safe intercourse later!” He settled back down with a grumble. “Spur of the moment is understandable, but no protection is shameful. They’d better not expect me to raise their kittens... Maybe I should have him neutered.” 

Within twenty minutes, the humans were clean, the cat was fed, and all three were studying Anathema’s notes. 

“The antichrist will arise in London,” Anathema paraphrased, shuffling prophecy cards into something resembling order. “When he turns eleven, he’ll get... some kind of beast. A dog, I think. That’s when he comes into his power. And all this...” She waved her hand toward the window where a brachiosaurus was peering curiously at them while occasionally shaking its head to try and dislodge the bronze angel clinging to its skull. “...is him reshaping the world to fit his imagination.” 

“Dinosaurs,” Newt said weakly. “And walking statues.” 

“Among other things. Agnes said the ‘ _beasts of the imaginason will walke the land of realitie._ ’” 

“So you’re saying all your cryptids weren’t real before?” Newt asked with a cautious smile. 

Anathema glared. “They’re real now!” She leaned possessively over her notecards. 

Aziraphale rubbed against her, purring gently. “He’s trying to help, my dear.” 

Anathema’s expression softened as she stroked the cat. “I wanted to find the antichrist ahead of time. But I’ve been in London for months and I don’t have any idea who it is!” 

“It’s Adam,” Newt replied. 

Anathema and Aziraphale stared at him. 

“That is correct,” the Siberian said slowly, “but how in the world...?” 

“What do you mean?” Anathema asked. 

Newt shrugged. “Everything that’s happening – it's what he talks about, isn’t it? He and you. Those imaginary creatures running around. Less cars. More trees.” 

Anathema shook her head in slow denial. 

“He just turned eleven,” Newt went on. “And he got a dog. And he came into the shop the other day upset about dog licenses and not being able to do anything because he’s a kid. Seems like he’s creating the perfect world in which to _be_ a kid.” 

“No,” Anathema whispered. “I couldn’t have... I’m supposed to _stop_ this. Not... encourage it.” 

Newt shrugged. “Well, you did. But that’s good, isn’t it? He isn’t dreaming about nuclear bombs thanks to you. If the world has to die, this seems nicer than that. And... we know things about him. Maybe we can find him and... talk him out of destroying us all.” 

Anathema wasted several seconds staring at him. Then she kissed him passionately. “I’ll get the book,” she panted and rushed away, leaving Newt to sink to the floor in a lovesick puddle. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Has it occurred to either of you that you don’t have the slightest idea where to look for him?” 

=^-^=

“Maybe it’s time to go home,” Crowley said to Adam as boy and cat sat watching several dinosaurs and a pair of animal-headed human statues splash about the pond. 

“I’m never going home,” Adam replied. He’d decided being able to understand his pets would be convenient. Although Dog’s vocabulary contained little except joyful shrieks about squirrels, cats, and interesting smells, Adam had found the cat to be an excellent conversationalist. 

“They’ll be worried about you,” Crowley pressed. He was thinking wistfully about breakfast. If the nanny and gardener were gone, and that terrifying dog with them, he could finally eat in peace. 

“I don’t care,” Adam grumbled. “That’s not my home. It’s just... a big mansion where my parents keep stuff to impress people. Like me. They don’t care about me. Not really.” 

Crowley couldn’t counter that. He’d had plenty of feelings over the past decade about the Dowling’s lack of parenting. “Family isn’t just relatives,” he replied hesitantly. “The cook and your tutors and-” 

“No!” Adam shouted, loud enough to make Dog emerge, barking wildly, from the bushes. 

Adam jumped to the ground. “I don’t need any of them. I have other friends coming. Powerful friends. They’re the only ones I need.” 

He stormed away, then whirled and glared at the cat. “I’m going to do whatever I want from now on! No one will tell me I have to be watched and protected. I can take care of myself. I’m going now. And...” For a moment he was a scared eleven-year-old again. “...and it doesn’t matter if you come with me or not.” His voice broke with a sob which said otherwise.

Crowley leaped down and jogged to him. He rubbed against Adam’s ankles. “Of course we’re coming with you.” 

Dog yelped enthusiastic agreement. 

Crowley bunched himself and leaped into Adam’s arms. 

The boy snuggled him close, the tears starting to fall. 

“Is this what you really want?” the cat asked. 

Adam was silent for a minute. “I don’t know,” he whispered helplessly. 

=^-^=

“All these years of waiting and we’re only riding to London?” Famine remarked to his companions as they gathered in a decrepit pub. “I always thought it would be further.” 

THE RIDE AND ITS OUTCOME ARE ESSENTIAL, NOT THE LENGTH, Death replied. 

“I suppose...” Pollution looked gloomy. “But, London? I’ve spent so much time there already.” 

“Look at it this way,” War replied sensibly. “By tomorrow, there won’t be enough of London left to ever visit again.” 

“Do we know what to do when we get there?” Famine asked. 

THE PLAN IS IN FLUX, Death declared. WE WILL FIND THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD AND RECEIVE OUR INSTRUCTIONS. 

Death rose to stand like an all-consuming shadow over the group. COME, they said. WE RIDE. 

=^-^=

The candles were lit in Madame Tracy’s apartment and the incense wafted heavily. Madame Tracy sat with eyes sunken shut, humming to herself as she let her mind drift toward the spirit realm. 

Across the table, Shadwell gripped her hands reluctantly. He wasn’t at all pleased to have been drawn into this nonsense. 

The sight of the world turned to chaos the day before had been more than Shadwell’s mind could handle. He’d fainted dead away in Tracy’s parlor. 

He’d awoken in a bed of soft pillows, glassy-eyed toy animals, and leather objects of whose names and purposes he couldn’t begin to fathom. Madame Tracy had plied him with tea and dinner and begged him to spend the night. She wouldn’t feel safe without a strong man at her side. 

So Shadwell and his thunder gun (not a euphemism) had spent the night on her sofa. 

They’d awoken to increased madness and a triceratops asleep on the front step. Trapped in the flat, they’d debated their options and found none of any plausible validity.

Eventually, Madame Tracy had decided to consult the spirits. 

Shadwell was not thrilled to be recruited to join her. But he’d resolved to protect her, and that meant following her into this summoning business since he couldn’t convince her to call it off.

The humming went on, and Shadwell’s eyelids sank low. He wove slowly back and forth in tandem with Tracy. The incense made him feel heavy and sleepy. He thought he saw figures in the candle smoke but he felt too detached to care. 

Dimly, he thought he was being lured into iniquity and sorcery. But his mind felt too fuzzy to worry. Nothing to worry about. Nothing until... 

Madame Tracy’s eyes snapped open as she sat upright, a sharp and piercing gaze taking in the room. “ _Is this London?_ ” she asked in a cadence rather unlike her own.

Shadwell started to answer, but something shoved his consciousness out of the way and answered for him. “ _Smells like it._ ” 

Tracy rose to her feet. “ _Finally._ ” She stretched in a way her back could barely bend at her age. “ _This is uncomfortable and undignified._ ” 

“ _Corpses work better_ ,” Shadwell grunted. “ _But you can’t use them for long before they start to rot. These live meat sacks hold up better._ ” 

“Who are you?” Madame Tracy demanded in her own voice. “What are you do-” She broke off with a cry of pain.

“ _Be quiet, woman!_ ” Tracy’s voice snapped. “ _Be still, and don’t interfere. This is for the greater good._ ” 

“Dun’t ye’ be talkin’ to her like that!” Shadwell roared, finding his voice at last. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but clearly some nefarious southern pansy was harming Tracy, and that couldn’t be tolerated. 

Before he could take a step, he found his insides squeezed horribly and painfully. The world swam to blackness. He tried to cry out, tried to fight, but nothing happened. While he writhed in unspeakable pain, his body crossed the room and conferred with Tracy calmly as if there wasn’t agony going on inside of him. 

“ _We have to find the brat,_ ” his body said. 

“ _Yes,_ ” the voice which wasn’t Tracy’s agreed. “ _It’s too late to get him to Megiddo. Our sides will have to gather here. We must contact them and find Adam immediately._ ”

“Adam,” Madame Tracy’s own voice gasped weakly. “Adam Dowling?” 

Her expression turned surprised. “ _You know the child, human?_ ” Her eyes turned colder. “ _You must show me what you know._ ” 

And as Shadwell fought against his motionless body, the horrible laughter in his head failed to drown out Madame Tracy’s screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [She Sights a Bird — She Chuckles](https://allpoetry.com/She-sights-a-Birdshe-chuckles) By Emily Dickenson


	13. Let Us Walk in the Woods

“I could fix all of it,” Adam insisted as he and the animals made their way through London. “I could make it so I was a kid forever. I could play all the time. No adults. I could get rid of all of them.” 

He watched Dog bound across the road and back again in pursuit of interesting smells. “It’s better this way, isn’t it?” Adam asked half to himself. “No leash rules. No one to hurt kids...” He trailed off as several children engaged in a fistfight appeared around the corner. 

“Stop it!” Adam cried, racing toward them and waving his arms. “No one’s supposed to hurt anyone else!” 

Several heads turned. One child moved to bar Adam’s path. “Go away! You’re not the boss of us!” 

“Yes, I am!” Adam fumed. 

Before he could do anything to prove it, he was shoved to the ground. 

Dog raced to Adam’s defense, slavering as only a small dog who’d once been a much larger apex predator possibly could. 

Adam caught him around the middle before he could savage anyone. “No, don’t!” 

Dog whimpered and licked his face. 

“Don’t worry about them,” another child said, squatting beside Adam with a friendly look. “They fight all the time. It’s what they do.” 

Adam sat up, still clutching his dog tightly. “This was supposed to be a place where nobody fights or gets hurt.” 

The child scoffed. “That’ll never happen. Someone’s always got something to fight about. You can’t make people not fight ever.” 

“I could,” Adam said slowly. 

The child laughed. “That’d be boring. Come on.” They extended a hand and helped Adam to his feet. “We’re going to have a food fight since there’s no adults in the restaurants. Do you want to come?” 

Adam soon found himself part of the gang. He felt grateful to allow someone else to make decisions while he struggled with the strange voices in his mind. “What were they fighting about?” he asked at last. 

“Which food would be best for fighting!” his new friend replied. 

=^-^=

“Do you know where Adam lives?” Anathema asked as she climbed onto the back of the scooter. 

“Doesn’t your book have the answer?” Newt replied. 

“I’ve been trying to get it to make sense all summer!” Anathema snapped. “The ley lines around here don’t make any sense. And the prophecies...” 

“Let me look at that, my dear.” Aziraphale leaped onto the scooter and pawed at the book Anathema held protectively to her chest. 

“No, Aziraphale!” the occultist objected. 

“You might as well,” Newt replied, standing awkwardly beside them now that the scooter seat was fully occupied. “If there’s a book Mr. Fell wants, you know he’ll get it.” 

Anathema reluctantly lowered the book and allowed the cat to paw through the pages. 

“Here we are,” Aziraphale announced and put his paw on a line. 

Anathema hefted the book. “‘ _Yoo seeke not wheer he is. He doos not calle home, home. He walks the streets untill he cuums to the plase of other mans books._ ’”

Anathema and Newt looked at one another. 

“The bookshop?” he asked. 

“The bookshop,” she agreed. 

While behind them a group of children formed themselves into a dinosaur-taming posse and set about learning to ride a stegosaurus, and an adult elephant statue escorted a dozen smaller elephant statues along in search of safety, the scooter put-putted resolutely toward the salvation of Earth. 

=^-^=

Dog was walking with a definite waddle, and even Crowley looked a touch food-drunk when Adam at last said goodbye to his new friends and resumed his trek. 

“No one’s hungry like this,” he said slowly, still trying to work out his troubles. “But the food will run out. And if the adults keep going away, kids would have to plant stuff or something. Then they couldn’t play. I guess I could make food for everyone. But that would be a lot of people to feed. And it seems to me I’d be in charge of making food for the whole world. That wouldn’t leave much time for fun.” 

Another block and they came upon several children digging up young trees. Adam strode forward with authority and ordered them to stop. The kids scattered, leaving Adam alone on the street. 

“It’s no good,” he said with a sigh. “I can keep making trees, but I can’t make everyone stop hurting them.” He stared helplessly at the ground. “What am I supposed to do?” 

=^-^=

“ _He isn’t here!_ ” Shadwell fumed as he stormed out of the Dowling mansion. “ _No one’s here._ ”

“ _No one? None of those human inferiors?_ ” Madame Tracy demanded.

“ _I don’t smell any of them. Maybe the brat got rid of them too._ ” Shadwell snatched a passing fly out of the air and crammed it into his mouth. “ _Well, if they’re all gone and the boy’s gone, what do we do?_ ”

“ _This human’s mind said something about a bookshop. The boy is apparently known to visit there often._ ”

“ _Is that where he’s been hiding from us?_ ”

“ _Not anymore._ ” Tracy’s mouth turned coldly grim. “ _Let’s find the boy and end this now._ ”

=^-^=

Laden down with two humans and a cat, the scooter putted along grimly, but the passengers might have made better speed walking. 

At least it gave them time to talk. 

“Once we get to the bookshop, did your ancestor say what we should do?” Newt asked. 

“I don’t know!” Anathema rifled frantically through the book. “I should have brought my index cards. The book is wonderful, but Agnes just wrote the prophecies down whenever she thought of them. They’re not in any order.” 

“But she expected you to be at the end of the world, didn’t she? So... whatever prophecy you pick will be the right one, won’t it?” 

“What?” 

“I mean... if you’re supposed to do what's written in the book, then you’ll be able to find the things you need to know.” 

“How does that make sense?” 

“Do you have a better idea? Just pick... five prophecies at random and see what you get.” 

“Umm...” Anathema blindly opened the book and put her finger on a line of text. “' _Two as friends and two as foes shalle ride together._ '”

“We’re three, not four.” 

“Okay... ‘ _Fore shalle ride and fore with them and deyth shalle take the fore._ ’”

“I hope that’s not us.” 

“I’m sorry. This isn’t an exact science.” Anathema said a silent whisper for help to her ancestor and opened the book once more. “‘ _The familie which is not bluud is stronger thaen the familie of bluud._ ’” 

“Maybe that means marriage?” 

“Come on Agnes!” Anathema growled. 

“You’re getting frustrated, my dear.” Aziraphale leaped out of the front basket and onto Newt’s shoulder. 

Newt swerved wildly at the unsteady weight of the not-light cat off-balancing the scooter. 

Aziraphale ignored the swerving and focused on the book. “You’re doing fine,” he purred to Anathema. “Deep breath. Open the book. And... there you are.” 

“What does it say?” Newt asked after the pause had gone on for a while. 

“It just says, ‘ _Change your views_ ’.”

Newt absorbed this in silence. “One more,” he said at last. 

“What?” 

“We were going to pick five. Try one more.” 

Anathema flipped the pages. “‘ _It ends in fyre but lyves are stronger._ ’”

Another burst of silence.

“I think we’re better off without your ancestor,” Newt said at last. 

“You might have a point.”

=^-^=

The barrier between London and the outside world hadn’t changed. Nothing could go over, under, or through it. Even cell and radio signals failed to cross the barrier. 

The outside was swamped with soldiers, scientists, and police (anyone not currently trying to keep order in a world filled with strange animals and random rainfalls of cake and chip) who tried to make sense of the barrier and find a way through. 

There had been absolutely no success from any attempt. 

Right up until four figures on motorcycles ran straight at the barrier and passed through as if it didn’t exist. 

The four curious Hell’s Angels following them were not so lucky. 

The riders had entered London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Cat's Song](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44880/the-cats-song) By Marge Piercy


	14. Guardian Cats Crouched Round Their Idol

Adam pushed open the bookshop door. “Newt?” he called. “Anathema? Mr. Fell? I think I messed up!” 

Crowley meowed his own greeting. 

Dog barked unhelpfully. 

“I guess nobody’s here,” Adam said slowly. “I hope I didn’t make them disappear.” He sank to the floor, pulled Crowley into his lap, and put an arm around Dog. “What am I going to do?” 

Crowley rubbed his head beneath Adam’s chin. “Take a break,” he suggested. “Naps are important.” 

Adam smiled weakly and settled back. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. “I can do all these things. And... I can do more than I have. But... why?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley admitted. “Do you remember what your nanny used to say?” 

“About ruling the wrong and crushing everyone under my feet?” 

“Not that nanny. The one before her. The good one.” 

Adam was silent for a moment. “Be nice to people. Ask for help. Listen to people who know more than me. Make smart decisions. Don’t just do things because I want to.” 

“She was a smart lady.” 

“Yeah... Lots of other smart people said things like that. The security guards and the teachers and everyone who...” A tear trickled down his cheek and he clutched the cat closer. “I ran away, didn’t I?” 

“Adam!” Newt and Anathema burst into the bookshop. 

Aziraphale threw himself at Crowley, purring with relief. 

“We’ve been looking for you!” Anathema cried. She dropped to the ground and hugged Adam fiercely. 

“You were worried about me?” Adam asked in a small, dazed voice. 

“Yes! We knew...” Anathema exchanged a look with Newt. “It’s complicated. But we knew you were causing all this.” She waved a hand at the window. “And it’s my fault.” 

“Your fault?” 

“I told you about all this... Environmentalism and cryptids and....” 

“It wasn’t just you,” Adam insisted. “I thought about this stuff a lot. I...” He looked up imploringly at her. “I wanted to make the world better. So everyone had enough to eat. And there were more trees. And... and it was like one of the stories. With adventures and dinosaurs and kids who are kids forever...” 

Anathema hugged him again. “I know. I know you want to help everyone. So do I.” 

Newt squatted beside them. “I know you hate hearing it, but you’re just a kid. Maybe you need to learn more about the world as it really is before you start changing things?” 

“Maybe...” 

“No! The time is upon us!” 

Humans and animals turned quickly to find four figures entering the bookshop. 

They were decidedly not human. 

The cats fluffed out and hissed furiously. 

Dog snarled and stood as tall as he could. 

One of the figures spoke. ARMAGEDDON HAS COME. IT IS YOUR DESTINY TO LEAD US IN CONQUEST. 

“Conquest?” Adam repeated blankly. 

“The Earth is yours. With our help, you will conquer and rule it,” the rider in red declared. 

“And we will bring about its destruction,” the rider in white purred with a voice as silky as an oil slick. 

“But... I don’t want to conquer,” Adam protested. 

“It’s your destiny,” the rider in black said hungrily. “You can change it. Make it pure and empty. Start all over however you please.” 

Adam looked helplessly up at Newt and Anathema. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“Get away from him!” 

The riders whirled as a gaggle of people swarmed the doorway. 

At the sight of them, Adam gave a glad cry and scrambled to his feet. 

“Adam, sweetie,” said the Dowling's cook, “we’ve been looking everywhere for you.” 

“You have?” 

“Of course. We’ve been so worried about you.” 

“We checked the bookshop yesterday,” said the chauffeur. “But we’ve looked everywhere else so we thought we’d try here again.” 

“We’ve been all over London,” the housekeeper said. “We swore we wouldn’t go back home until we had you safe and sound.” 

“Enough of this!” said the rider in red. “It is time for Armageddon to begin.” 

“Armageddon?” the tutor scoffed. “What kind of nonsense is that?” 

The rider drew her sword. “It is Adam’s destiny! To lead us in the final war!” 

“And bring about famine and decay,” added the rider in black. 

“And corruption and pollution,” supplied the rider in white. 

AND DEATH, finished the fourth rider. WE RIDE AT THE END, AND THERE IS NO STOPPING US. 

“What happened to Pestilence?” Newt asked innocently. 

The riders winced. 

“There was stopping... one of us,” Famine muttered. 

For a moment the humans cowered back from these embodiments of ideas and terrors. Then one of the security guards stepped forward. 

“I’ve seen War,” he said quietly. “I’ve been on battlefields where it doesn’t matter who the enemy is. Because you’re so scared. Or tired. Or hungry. And so is the enemy. You don’t know why you’re fighting. You just want to go home. I’ve seen families destroyed... towns destroyed... innocent people lose everything to War. I walked away from it. I’m a guard now. I protect. Maybe it’s still fighting. But it isn’t War. I’d never want to see War come to this boy or this land... or any land... ever again.” 

War fell back, strangely cowed by the defiance of a simple human. 

“I’ve seen Famine,” said the housekeeper as she came to stand beside the guard. “I grew up in neighborhoods where children didn’t always get enough to eat. Where handouts came at a price and everyone suffered. Where people sometimes had to choose between food and rent. I never want to see that again. I give whatever I can now. Money to those in need. Time to foodbanks. I do my part to see none are hungry ever again.” 

Famine grew suddenly reduced. 

“I know Pollution,” said the cook. “I’ve seen wildlands destroyed by carelessness. Trash piled up on roadsides. It poisons our air and food and our bodies.” She glared defiantly at the white rider. “So, I do what I can. I clean up. I recycle. I reuse. I teach others to do the same. And I’ll do that as long as I live.”

The rest of the Dowling household had stepped forward to form a formidable wall around Adam, staring down the four riders. 

“Chosen family,” Anathema murmured. She turned to Adam and put her hands on his shoulders. “You can get rid of them. You can send them away. If that’s what you want. You – we're – stronger than they are.” She pointed at the people around him. “This is your real family. Not them. Please, Adam.” 

The boy slowly faced down the shrinking figures. “I don’t want that destiny. I don’t want the earth destroyed. Go away!” 

And three figures vanished, leaving nothing behind but a tarnished crown, a dulled sword, and a broken scale. 

Death and Adam studied one another. 

Both became aware of a hissing and looked down. 

The cats stood between the humans and Death. With fur puffed to its absolute limit and fangs bared, they stared down Death with ferocity and courage. 

Death looked at Adam. DO YOU KNOW HOW DEATH FIRST ENTERED THIS WORLD? 

“There’s a story about it,” Adam said slowly. “With two brothers fighting. One kills the other.” 

NO. THAT WAS THE FIRST MURDER. I WAS ALREADY PRESENT IN CREATION BY THEN. Death removed their helmet, revealing their empty and shadowed eyes. 

Adam did not flinch away. 

THERE WERE TWO SIDES, Death said emotionlessly. NEVER TO COME TOGETHER. BUT TWO DID. AND NEITHER SIDE COULD ALLOW THAT. SO THEY WERE ELIMINATED. AND DEATH CAME TO THE GARDEN. 

“Do you have any idea what they’re going on about?” Crowley asked Aziraphale with a sideways glance. 

“No,” the Siberian replied, his brow furrowed. 

Death looked down at them. CATS ARE INCONVENIENT TO ME, they said. THE NINE LIVES. IT MAKES THE PAPERWORK DIFFICULT. A glint of something resembling amusement flickered through the hollow eye sockets. BUT IT GIVES THEM A LONG TIME TO GET THINGS RIGHT. 

Death spread wings as dark as Creation’s shadow and vanished from the bookshop with a whisper and a chill. 

The humans were left blinking and shuddering for several minutes, their minds suddenly swamped with things they weren’t able to comprehend. 

Only Adam had a mind broad and innocent enough to grapple and process the moment. And even he needed to hold his dog close and stare soberly into the distance. 

All three animals found themselves passed around by humans in sudden need of something warm to cuddle. 

“I think we should go home,” the housekeeper said. “Are you ready to come back, Adam?” 

“ _He’s not going anywhere._ ” 

The group whirled once more as two figures stepped into the bookshop. 

“Mr. Shadwell?” Newt said uncertainly, something in the old man’s posture and expression filling him with alarm. 

“Madame Tracy?” Anathema echoes with equal unsteadiness. 

The two figures ignored the baffled humans. Their focus was entirely on Adam. 

“ _Young man,_ ” said Madame Tracy. “ _Your reluctance to begin the final war is proof of your superior nature. But it is time Armageddon got underway._ ” 

“Armageddon?” echoed the cook. 

“The end of the world,” Anathema supplied, her eyes fixed with horror on the new arrivals. “Who are you?” 

“Why are you two people?” Adam asked, frowning hard at them. “That’s not right. You shouldn’t be two people. And you’re hurting Mr. Shadwell and Madame Tracy.” He took a step forward, gripping his snarling dog tighter. “Seems to me you should go back to being separate people.” 

There was a small shiver in the air, then Madame Tracy was staggering into Shadwell’s arms as the old man dragged her away from the two figures who had appeared from within them.

Like the riders, they radiated an inhuman aura despite the resemblance to figures most of them had seen before. 

“Nanny?” Adam asked incredulously, staring hard at the violet-eyed figure in an immaculate pastel pantsuit. His gaze switched to the stooped gardener, now inexplicably wearing a large frog on his head. 

“Hello, Adam,” Nanny said in a crisp voice. She reached out a hand armed with long and manicured nails and tried to grasp his shoulder. “You’ve had your fun. It’s time to get back to business.” 

Before she could reach him, twin balls of fur landed in the space separating Adam and the new arrivals. The cats snarled so deep in their throats that Dog looked impressed.

Nanny recoiled with a sneer, her cold eyes focused on Crowley. “You again.” 

“Time we got rid of you for good,” said the gardener, making a pass with his hand. 

“Don’t!” Adam cried. 

The cat twitched in place as if something yanked at them but was slapped away. 

“Don’t hurt them,” Adam said clearly. He let Dog slide to the ground and advanced, facing down the two figures with a hissing feline on either side. “Don’t hurt anyone.” 

“Young man,” Nanny said testily, “this charade has gone on long enough. You know what you can do. It’s time you chose a side.” 

“A side?” 

Nanny smiled with a sickly attempt at sweetness. She took a step closer but a swipe of feline claws made her fall back. Was it her imagination, or were the cats larger? 

The gardener spoke. “We’ve tried to teach you your purpose. This world belongs to you. You can do whatever you please. And with your help, we can crush Heaven at last.” 

“What?” the boy asked helplessly. 

“Armageddon,” Anathema supplied, clutching her book like a lifeline. “That’s what’s happening, Adam. The Riders. The changes in the world. Those... beings. They want to fight. Here.” 

“Why? Why here?” Adam demanded. 

“We’ve explained this to you,” Nanny said testily. “Haven’t I read you Revelations for years? And so many books of prophecy?” 

“That’s all boring nonsense,” Adam scoffed. “You never read the good stuff. With pirates and musketeers and aliens.” 

“That could all be real,” Nanny coaxed. “You could make this world like any of your fantasy stories. You could rule.” 

“I’ve thought about it,” Adam said, suddenly on solid ground. “I’ve tried it out. And I don’t like it. I want to go home. And be a kid. With a bedtime and rules and...” he looked back at the gathered adults. “...with people who care about me.” His gaze returned to Nanny’s. “I don’t want to destroy the world. Or rule it. Or any of that. I want people to figure out how to make the world better themselves.” 

“It doesn’t matter!” the gardener croaked. “You were born for this. It’s your destiny.” 

“I don’t want a destiny!” Adam objected. “My parents want me to be something I’m not. But there are other people teaching me to be things other than that. I don’t want to be what you want me to be either. And I won’t!” His chin rose higher. “You said I can change the world, didn’t you? So I’m not going to have a destiny.” He smiled with satisfaction. “There. I’ve decided how I’m changing things.” 

“You cannot change the Grand Plan!” Nanny roared. 

Nanny grew abruptly larger, and brighter, and more terrifying than any human eye could withstand. 

The gardener beside her bubbled into something eldritch and maggoty. Something meant to consume anything in its path. They stepped toward Adam. 

Their advance was met with a pair of furry and fanged forms. Cats, yes. But not of Earthly making. 

Or perhaps entirely of Earthly making. Adam had found himself backed into a corner. Uncertain. Tired. In need of protection. 

And two guardians had stepped up to the task. 

And into them, Adam poured his wishes and needs. Heaven and Hell advanced on him. The boogeymen from his childhood were real and here to force him into a life he couldn’t endure. Perhaps he might have fought them alone if he’d had time to understand the powers within him. But he was a fledgling at the abilities he controlled. He needed someone he could trust. Someone into whom he could pour all his beliefs and dreams and confidence. 

And the cats were more than willing to stand between him and the fear. 

Nanny fell backwards, a dark shadow of serpent eyes and knife-length claws swarming over her form. 

The gardener was besieged with something radiating light, fur, and significant size with a mouth opened wide enough to swallow his frog whole. 

Wings and weapons emerged, but neither were enough as the invading pair were forced into the street. 

Adam strode after them, his guardians pacing at his side and the cluster of his family – his chosen family – fanning out into a supportive wall at his back. 

“You say this is my world,” Adam said firmly. “Alright then. I don’t want fighting. I don’t want messing about. If you want to have your war, go do it somewhere else. It’s no good doing it here. There’s loads of people and animals and trees here. They shouldn’t be hurt for your fighting. That’s not right at all.” 

“But this is what was written!” Nanny protested, fanning out a set of six, rather battered, wings. 

“That’s no reason it can’t be changed,” Adam replied. “And just because something’s written down doesn’t make it true. I read about dinosaurs in the middle of the Earth, and it’s true now, but it wasn’t before. I just wanted it to be. Now I don’t want this to be true. I want you to go away and decide to do something better than fighting somewhere you don’t belong. That’s rude.” 

“But we’ve been waiting thousands of years to get back at them!” the gardener protested. 

“So?” Adam replied stubbornly. “That’s got nothing to do with me. You could have talked it out a long time ago. Or fought if you wanted to. And if you’ve been waiting all that time to fight, what’s the point in being done with it? What would you do afterwards? Fight with yourselves?” 

The nanny and gardener looked at one another. 

The cats took a menacing step closer. 

“I will consult with the council,” Nanny said at last. “But this isn’t over.” 

“I’ll say,” the gardener grunted. “Wait until your father hears about this.” 

“Good luck,” Adam said with a scoff. “He’s never paid attention to me before. Why should he care now?” 

A rush of wings and a scattering of dirt and the beings had disappeared. 

Adam breathed out a tired sigh and sat down where he was. 

The cats trilled and nudged against him. 

Adam put an arm around Crowley’s neck. “It’s been a long day,” he said wearily. 

“You did brilliantly, young man,” Aziraphale purred. “I believe those ne'er-do-wells will think twice about harassing you again.” He looked out at the street where an okapi from the London Zoo was ambling in tandem with a pair of war donkeys from a Hyde Park memorial, and a car alarm was beeping weakly after having been recently crushed by an ankylosaur. “Not to be a bother,” he said delicately, “but I rather think you’ll need to do something about the mess fairly soon.” 

Adam nodded. “I think it’s best everything went back to how it was. People will have to fix the world themselves. It’d be no fair if they made me do it all for them. Especially if they just messed it up afterwards.” He looked back at the gathering of people who’d come to support him and now stood awkwardly, talking with one another in a dazed state. “I think it’s better if everyone... didn’t forget exactly. But didn’t remember either. It’s better that way.” 

“Wise choice,” Aziraphale agreed. He started to lie down beside Crowley, but paused midway as vibrations in the ground disturbed his movements. “Is there another dinosaur on its way?” 

“They’re not that powerful,” Crowley replied, rising slowly. “Feels more like an...” 

The earth erupted in the center of the street. Dirt, statues, people, and animals scattered and tumbled together. 

A raw, red hand emerged from the ground, followed by a raw, red face. “WHERE IS MY SON?” boomed a fiery voice. 

Adam scrambled backwards. 

The cats and Dog stationed themselves between him and the monstrous figure. 

The entity shifted slowly, smoke and the stench of sulphur wafting around him. At last his flaming eyes fixed on Adam. “THERE YOU ARE.” He frowned, and his displeasure was enough to drive sanity from the strongest mind. “YOU’VE BEEN CAUSING TROUBLE.” 

“Who’re you?” Adam demanded. There was no terror in his voice. His day had been too strange to bother with terror. 

“I?” the being asked with surprise. “I’M YOUR FATHER.” 

“No, you’re not,” Adam snapped. “My father’s smaller and American and doesn’t look like something a wizard would yell ‘you shall not pass’ at.” 

“NEVERTHELESS,” the being’s booming voice continued. “YOU ARE MY SON. AND YOU HAVEN’T BEEN BEHAVING AS YOU OUGHT.” 

“Seems to me...” Adam climbed to his feet, using the cats for balance against the shaking ground. “...if you wanted me to act a certain way, you shouldn’t have waited eleven years to show up. Real dads shouldn’t ignore their kids all the time, and always expect them to do just what you want without asking what they want. Real dads should know things about their kids. Like their favorite games or what they’d REALLY like for their birthdays. Real dads shouldn’t leave their kid with someone else to raise and hope they’ll be okay caregivers. And real dads really shouldn’t expect their kids to start a war!” 

The being looked startled. Then it shrank. 

In seconds, a man-shaped being stood beside the hole in the ground. He looked far more human than the last few entities who’d appeared. He was classily dressed and had the face of someone you’d be willing to spill a few too many secrets to over a few too many drinks, and one which would also seem appropriate to find on a figure trading souls for music lessons at a crossroad at midnight. 

The man-shaped being smiled congenially. “Very well. Let’s talk.” 

=^-^=

So that was how Armageddon ended. 

Not with War or Famine or Pollution. 

Not with two sides, who’d hated each other so long they couldn’t remember how their hatred had started, finally fighting it out. 

It ended with a father and son sitting in an outdoor café talking for the first time in eleven years. 

Dog sat beside Adam’s chair and the cats curled intertwined in his lap. 

And father and son talked. 

Around them, dinosaurs and cave people returned to their holes in the ground and from there back into imagination. Statues returned to their podiums and stood as motionless sentinels over London. Animals found their ways back to the zoos, pet shops, stables, and homes from which they’d wandered. Trees shrank. Grass disappeared. Cars rolled along the M-25. And people went home. 

Twilight was growing dim when father and son at last arose. They shook hands seriously. Lucifer looked as though he would have liked to hug his son, but Adam wasn’t ready for that. But they’d agreed to meet again. The devil was interested in getting to know the boy. Now that he didn’t have Armageddon swamping his schedule. A final promise to not lose touch, and Lucifer vanished back to Hell. 

“I’m ready to go home now,” Adam said quietly to Newt, who’d been keeping an eye on them from the bookshop window. 

The old scooter had served well that day already, but it had some life left in it. Despite a man, a boy, a dog, and a cat all loaded onto it, it proved to have the horsepower to reach its destination promptly and comfortably. 

Adam took a deep breath as he opened the door. 

Inside he found a joyful welcome from the people who’d raised him. Who’d loved him enough to seek him at the end of the world. And they had more news. 

His parents had arrived. 

And they wanted to spend time with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ella Mason And Her Eleven Cats](https://allpoetry.com/Ella-Mason-And-Her-Eleven-Cats) By Sylvia Plath


	15. What the Hand Dare Seize the Fire?

In Southern England lay a sleepy town called Tadfield, largely undisturbed by the world beyond.

Greasy Johnson had lived in the village all his life. He was a large and awkward boy who rarely seemed to know his own strength. 

His parents had never told him that he was adopted. 

He’d gained a group of followers known as the Johnsonites who were generally at odds with the rival gang which was led by a fiery-tempered girl who was a mean one to cross. 

Greasy was secretly in love with her and fairly certain he didn’t have a chance. 

The only one who knew, of course, was his best friend. 

They were best friends because they shared a birthdate. 

And having that much in common had been enough to form a bond which was strengthened by common experiences. 

It was early Sunday morning. They’d awoken and raced into the woods in search of... something. 

A nagging sensation tugged at them that the previous day had been one of importance. That if they looked hard enough, they’d find something interesting. 

Interesting, as it turned out, found them. 

They were nearing their clubhouse when they heard a shifting from inside, and the largest dog they’d ever seen emerged. 

The dog’s tail hung low. He’d had several long days of searching for purpose, being set upon by dinosaurs, and chased away by any child he approached. The sight of two more boys sank him deeper into despondency. 

He was not expecting them to surround him with offered bits of toast and hands eager to pet. 

“Do you think someone owns him?” asked the smaller boy. His parents had taken the bad advice of a nun and named him Warlock Young. He’d never quite forgiven them. 

"If they did, they’re not treating him right,” Greasy declared stoutly. “He’ll be our dog now.” 

The dog tentatively waved his tail. Could it be? Did someone want him? 

“He can go adventuring with us,” Greasy went on. “And trade off staying at our houses. And we’ll take care of him.” 

With the dog between them, the boys returned to the village, their minds on the all-important subjects of names. 

You never forget your first friends. Three boys had shared a hospital once. That counted for a lot. 

And everyone needed to find Home. 

=^-^=

Crowley had slept the whole night – slept deep and at peace. Even Dog’s twitching hadn’t stirred him until the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window. 

He’d slipped out of the room, eaten a hearty breakfast, and wandered onto the grounds. 

Near the edge of the property sat an aged and badly-maintained car. It had belonged to the gardener, but the gardener and nanny had vanished two days prior with no sign of intended return. 

Crowley leaped onto the hood and stretched out to take in the sunlight. He liked the car, even if he’d spent a terrifying night in its trunk. At close to a century old, the car had seen better days, and it would have taken countless miracles to restore it to any semblance of functioning. That was unlikely to occur. 

But at least today it could serve as a comfortable perch for a cat. 

It was hours later when Adam came looking for Crowley. “It’s really happening,” he said by way of greeting. “Mum and Dad want me to go to America with them. Right away. They want to show me the country.” He swallowed hard. “I’m not sure if I’ll start school there or here.” 

Crowley turned his wide eyes on the downcast face. “How do you feel about this?” 

“Okay,” Adam said slowly and with a tremor to his voice. “I want to see things. The world, I mean. Learn real things. Not just stories.” He looked back at the house. “I’m not leaving my family. Not really. Family’s still family even if you don’t see them for a little while. And I’ll be back. Someday.” 

Crowley’s ears spayed uncertainly. “Adam...” 

The boy pulled the cat into his arms and held him close. “It’s okay. I know you’re not coming with me.” 

Crowley looked up at him. 

“Your family’s bigger than just me,” the boy went on bravely. “And you need to be with them right now.” 

A lump formed in the feline’s throat. “You don’t need me looking after you anymore.” 

“Maybe not,” Adam said slowly. “I _think_ you’ve protected me as long as you needed to. I think I’ll be okay now. And I do have Dog.” 

“He’ll do great,” Crowley agreed. “For a dog.”

Adam barely put the cat down for the next hour as his bags were packed, his goodbyes were said, and at last his parents ushered him into the waiting car. 

Alone, Crowley returned to his place on the hood of the car. 

The hours ticked by. 

Crowley marked Adam’s progress by the internal clock in his head. 

By now they would have reached the airport. 

Now they’d have cleared customs and reached the gate. 

Now the plane would be rising from the runway and turning its nose toward New York. 

New York. The city on the island. 

It was sometimes called the Big Apple. 

He felt rather than heard the rush of wings as someone appeared behind him. 

“I suppose you’re feeling pleased with yourself,” Nanny said with a sneer in her voice. 

Crowley raised his head and turned to face his adversary. He curled back his lips and hissed. 

Nanny smirked. “Oh, don’t be frightened, little one. The brat fancies you for reasons unknown. I’m sure he’s left protection on you.” She sighed regretfully. “It’s a pity the same can’t be said for your boyfriend.” 

Crowley leaped up, his sparse fur immediately erect. 

Nanny’s grin turned smug. “You two looked cute together. It’s a pity some things aren’t meant to be.” 

She vanished, leaving nothing behind but the acrid scent of smoke. 

=^-^=

Newt had returned to the bookshop after taking Adam home. Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell had already taken a bus back to their flat, making eyes at each other which indicated that a shared experience of possession had left them less uncertain of their feelings for each other. 

Anathema still lingered, and Newt gallantly offered her a ride with a hopeful, puppyish air. They left together, weary but smiling at one another. 

Aziraphale stayed behind. Listening to the humans finally get on with what nature intended failed to perk his interest. After the past few days, he was ready for a good meal and a long nap. 

And Crowley. 

But that pleasure would wait. Crowley’s human needed him for now. Tomorrow, Aziraphale hoped, would be soon enough for them to see one another. 

Aziraphale slept. 

A knocking on the door awoke him late in the morning. Never one to wait for human intervention, Aziraphale unlocked the door and allowed a deliveryman armed with tongs to enter and collect a trio of smoldering objects from the floor. Aziraphale sniffed the spot where they’d lain with a sigh. The crown in particular had left an unpleasant stain. He’d have to get Newt’s mind focused long enough for some serious cleaning. 

The deliveryman returned from his truck with a paper-wrapped parcel which he left on the counter. “It’s supposed to go to a Ms. Device,” he informed the watching cat. “We’ve had it in our care for... quite a while. Somehow these things always come to us, you know?” 

Aziraphale meowed and rubbed against him. 

Alone, he circled the parcel. It smelled like a book. And Aziraphale had no qualms about opening other people’s mail. 

It was quick work to sever string and paper to reveal the box beneath. And inside... was treasure indeed. 

“‘ _The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ ’,” Aziraphale purred. “Well, now. Agnes was quite the prophet, wasn’t she?” He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, trying to envision this curious once-upon-a-time witch. He would have liked to have known such a curious human.

He nudged aside the title page and turned his eyes to the first line. 

Behind him, he heard the bell jangle. He didn’t look up, too excited to see what the future held. 

The smell of lighter fluid and the roar of flames told him a great deal about the future a moment too late. 

=^-^=

It was a fifty-minute walk from St. John’s Wood to Soho for a focused walker. It was fifteen by car, provided London traffic was obliging. On a good day, Crowley could manage the commute in thirty, provided he could find buses and stopped cars going the way he wanted, or reached the tube station at the perfect moment. 

Today, he reached the bookshop in ten minutes flat. 

He couldn’t remember a second of his desperate flight. Just his heart hammering a constant, desperate rhythm. 

‘ _Please-no-please-no-please-no!_ ’

He heard the shriek of sirens and saw the billow of smoke when he was still a block away. 

That was enough motivation to discover he could run faster if he tried. 

An inferno met his eyes as he rounded the corner. 

The bookshop windows were broken, the oxygen feeding the flames which gutted themselves on old paper and aged wood. Firefighters had closed off the street and were only just beginning to pull out their hoses. But they looked more prepared to slow the spread than save the ravaged building. 

Crowley skidded to a halt, his eyes frantically searching the street. “Aziraphale!” he cried. “Angel!” 

His cries were swallowed up by the noise, and no answering meow came to his ears. 

Without a thought, he charged forward and sprang through the bookshop window. 

Dimly he heard shouts behind him, but he ignored the cries. Only one thing mattered. 

“Aziraphale!” he shouted as he landed on the blisteringly hot floor. Already smoke was choking his lungs, but he shouted anyway. “Aziraphale!” 

A hoarse sort of whine came to his frantically rotating ears. He plunged through the flaming debris in search of the whisper. 

And there he lay. White fur singed and blackened. One leg caught under a fallen shelf. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was barely a gasp. 

Crowley sunk his teeth into the Siberian’s bow tie and pulled with all his strength. 

Aziraphale came free of the shelf, leaving a trail of blood and fur behind. 

Crowley braced his paws and backed toward the door. Sparks peppered his back. Smoke choked his nostrils. His eyes watered until he was blinded and forged backwards with unseeing desperation. Every step burned his feet. Every instinct screamed at him to turn and flee. 

But flight would have meant leaving behind something more precious than life. 

And he wasn’t letting go. 

He became dimly aware of another figure watching him. One with hollow eyes and a cloak so dark that it merged with the shadows.

_You can’t have him,_ Crowley hissed silently, glaring through watering eyes at the watching spectre. _I won’t let him go. You don’t get to take him._

But the figure followed steadily beside him as he inched toward the door. 

Water streamed through the window, making the flames crackle and hiss around them. The smoke turned so thick that Crowley dropped to his belly in frantic pursuit of air. 

_Have to keep going,_ he thought dully. _Can’t... stop..._

There was the doorway. Miraculously clear of debris and flames. Crowley staggered toward the welcoming breath of wind. 

As the ground changed from burning wood to too-hot cement, strong arms caught around his middle and hefted him aloft. 

“No!” Crowley shrieked as he lost his grip on Aziraphale. “No! Don’t!” He fought feebly against the gently restraining grip. 

He could hear the human praising him. Telling him he was brave. But as his struggles ceased and he slipped toward unconsciousness, his last sight was of a firefighter performing CPR on an unresponsive pale form. 

And Death standing patiently at their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Tyger](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43687/the-tyger) By William Blake


	16. An Experienced Eye of Earthly Sharpness

“Come on, sweetie. You need to eat.” 

Crowley turned his head away as Madame Tracy bumped a bowl against his nose. 

He’s awoken in her parlor, his burns cleaned and bandaged. He’d staggered through the flat, calling weakly for Aziraphale. His desperate search had come to a sickening halt when he’d spotted the frayed end of Aziraphale’s bow tie hanging off the table edge. He’d swiped it the ground, his hopes breaking at the sight of the burned fabric. He’d dragged it into a corner, curled protectively around this last scrap of memory, and shut himself off from the world. 

Tracy came and went without Crowley’s acknowledgement. Sometimes she rubbed his head or spoke to him. Crowley didn’t listen or respond. He simply stared, dull and hollow, at an existence suddenly devoid of joy. 

He’d had losses before. He’d bonded with many over the years – humans and animals. 

But never like this. 

From that first instance of Aziraphale standing between him and the rain, he’d felt reality shift. Center itself around the refined and intellectual feline. There was no reason Aziraphale ever ought to have looked twice at a battered and unhandsome beast such as himself. Yet Aziraphale had. Aziraphale had loved him. 

And that meant everything. 

And now... there was nothing. 

There were voices around him speaking in hushed tones. 

“He hasn’t slept or eaten since the fire,” Madame Tracy was saying. 

Newt squatted beside him. “Cheer up, little buddy. Aziraphale is in good hands, I promise.” 

Good hands? Yes. The softest, quietest hands imaginable. 

The hands which took everyone in the end. 

The gentle tones continued, but Crowley didn’t hear a word of them. Not until a harsh Scottish brawl broke through the muted sounds. 

“Enough of this carrying on! He dun’t need ye’ lot tellin’ him what to feel. Ye’ nancies dun’t know anything about it.” 

Gnarled hands scooped up the cat and marched from the flat. 

Crowley watched the world move past in a blur until he was dumped onto a kitchen table. 

“Well now, soldier,” Shadwell growled. “Ye’ did a brave thing. Pullin’ a comrade from the blaze. Yer a right hero ye’ are.” 

He moved into the kitchen, busying himself among the cabinets. There were sounds of splashing, then Shadwell returned and slammed a glass down centimeters from Crowley’s head. 

Crowley didn’t flinch, nor did he react as Shadwell drew back his head and pulled his mouth open. He watched Shadwell stick an eyedropper into his mouth without responding. 

But when the generous stream of whisky hit the back of his throat, Crowley awoke fighting and wheezing. 

“There ye’ are, ye’ lil’ demon,” Shadwell rumbled in satisfaction, holding the flailing cat pinned to the table by the scruff of his neck. “Yer not gone yet. And we’re goin’ ta keep it that way.” His perpetually bloodshot eyes glared into Crowley’s. “That Fell cat wouldn’t want ye’ losin’ yourself on his account. So ye’re goin’ to buck up and keep on livin’. For him. Ye’ hear?” 

He forced Crowley’s mouth open again. This time the cat unwillingly swallowed a mouthful of condensed milk. And another. Shadwell didn’t let him go until Crowley had ingested most of the can. 

Freed at last, Crowley hid beneath the decrepit sofa and hissed when the old man drew near. 

Shadwell chuckled. “That’s it, Laddie. Ye’ keep fightin’. Ye’ stay right there and away from them fussin’ womenfolk. We’ll get ye’ right enough, that we will. Ye’ dun’t let them witches and fiends win. Not against ye’. Not while there’s fight left in ye’.” 

Crowley hissed and swore never to come out. 

But by the next day, his belly filled with Shadwell’s dubious definition of a proper feline diet, he’d fallen asleep on the old man’s lap. 

It wasn’t the comfort he wanted. But it was something.

=^-^=

There had been nothing but smoke and darkness for a long time. 

Sometimes Aziraphale thought he saw movement at the corner of his eyes or heard a fluttering of wings. Mostly he drifted alone. 

He wasn’t sure if he was alive. Or if he had a body. It didn’t seem to matter. Drifting through nothingness seemed entirely peaceful. 

Sometimes a stray thought flickered into his mind. That there were things he was forgetting. That people would be worried about him. That he needed to make sure a dinosaur didn’t crush the bookshop. 

But it all felt very detached and distant. 

It was after an endless stretch of nothing that the fog slowly cleared, and Aziraphale found himself standing on a dirt path leading up to a cottage. 

This seemed no stranger than anything else. 

He walked forward and the cottage door opened before he could touch it. 

A middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense expression looked down at him. “Come in,” she said crisply. “Let’s not waste any time.”

He followed her inside. 

The cottage had looked old from the outside, but the interior contained all the modern appliances and comforts of a twenty-first century dwelling. 

The woman had gone into the kitchen. She returned now with tea and a tray of blueberry scones. 

Aziraphale’s nose twitched. 

“You may have one," the woman said. “Too much sugar isn’t good for you. And the riders will be here shortly. I’ll need refreshments for them.” 

“Riders?” Aziraphale asked as he leaped into a kitchen chair. 

“Silly beings. They got themselves discorporated by a child, and now they don’t know what to do. And they think I’ll know something useful about them.” 

Aziraphale studied the woman as she seated herself at the table and served the tea. Her appearance reminded him somewhat of Anathema. Maybe in the determined expression and the too-clever eyes. 

“Are you... Mrs. Agnes Nutter?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Of course, you silly cat. Who else were you expecting? You came looking for answers, and here I am.” 

“Answers?” Aziraphale couldn’t say he’d been looking for anything. But now memories were starting to filter back. “There was a fire,” he said suddenly. “Your manuscript! It was destroyed.” 

Agnes sipped her tea with a composed expression. “There was a strong possibility of that happening.” She smiled at the cat. “Don’t you be concerned. If it hadn’t been destroyed then, my descendant might have burned it herself. There was a strong possibility for that as well.” 

Aziraphale stared blankly at her. “Do you mean to say,” he said slowly, “you didn’t see a definite future? You just saw possible outcomes?” 

“Of course. The future is never completely written. But one pattern leads to another and if all things fit together, things work out along certain pathways.” 

“But your book – it was accurate. Completely accurate.” 

“Depending on how it was interpreted. And seeing Armageddon was easy.” 

“It was?” 

“Yes. Once your sides decided they had to fight, the pieces fell into place.” She laughed to herself. “But there was little chance in them succeeding. Not once they’d started things moving down a particular road. Once they did, the future opened upon with certain patterns, and I saw them all very clearly.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a moment to process that and nibble at his scone. Something clicked in his mind. “My side?” 

“Yes, dear. You’re more involved in all this nonsense than you know.” 

“Am I?” 

Agnes sipped her tea meditatively. “Seeing backwards has always been harder for me than forward. It shouldn’t be, you know. I see through my relatives’ eyes most easily. And there were plenty of Nutters who came before me. But I’ve had a few centuries to practice. And it doesn’t hurt that I can look up my ancestors if I want. Although that requires visiting some unpleasant places, so I don’t do that often.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale ventured. 

Agnes scoffed. “It’s no fault of yours, cat. The opposite really.” She leaned back in her chair. “The trouble with dying is that most humans assume they only have two choices. So they go to one or the other. And both have their negatives.” 

“I thought Heaven...” 

“It’s boring. Dull, flat and boring. Someone will do something about that sooner or later. Some clever humans will decide enough is enough and fix it. I’ve seen it happen.” She smiled knowingly. “And the other way – sure, it’s exciting. But an eternity of anything – even vices – hurts as much as the boredom.” She looked around her cottage. “There aren’t many of us who see things clearly enough to build our own afterlifes. Adam will certainly be one. I’m looking forward to having him as a neighbor. He’s going to shake things up.” She laughed.

Aziraphale nodded along. He’d finished his scone and glanced wistfully at the others. But he thought it would be impolite to ask. Especially when his host was trying to tell a story.

“What I was saying is I’ve been looking backwards. Taking a look at some people - like that young man of Anathema’s to see what kind of family he comes from. Witchfinders way back, his ancestors. But that’s alright. He’s a good sort. Unfortunate curse – that technology issue of his. You might be able to help him with that. With the right book.” 

“My books are all burned away,” Aziraphale replied. 

Agnes snorted. “You’ll find more. Depending on what you decide once you know.” 

“Know what?” 

“How you began! That’s what I’m telling you.” 

Aziraphale decided against pointing out that she hadn’t said much of clarity yet. 

Agnes jabbed a finger at him. “You didn’t do what you were supposed to, you know.” 

“Didn’t I?” the cat asked uncertainly. “What was I supposed to do?” 

“Die,” the witch replied. 

Aziraphale blinked. “I rather think I’m doing that now.” 

“Oh, I don’t mean _now_. I mean 6,000 years ago.” 

The cat recoiled. “That long ago?” 

“Of course. You and the other one. The one with the serpent eyes.” 

“Crowley?” 

“If that’s what he’s calling himself now, yes.” Agnes flicked a hand dismissively. “The point is, they wanted you to die, but it didn’t stick.” 

“Who wanted that? Why? And... why didn’t it?” 

“Because you did what your sides didn’t want. You found love. You were supposed to eventually, you know. That was part of the plan. The trouble is, you found each other too soon. I don’t know why it was different this time.” 

“This time?” Aziraphale echoed. 

“This universe. This possibility. Whatever you call it. He finds you, you find him. It’s a pattern that repeats itself. But it isn’t supposed to happen right at the beginning. And certainly not out in the open with everyone watching. You really should have been more careful.” 

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale ventured. 

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. HER maybe - or whatever THEY feel like using right now. It hardly matters. What does matter is that you did, and they – your side and his side – intended to get rid of you. And they succeeded. You’ve been here before.” Agnes waved her hand toward the mist in the window outside. 

“Dead,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Someone killed us?” 

“Of course. Sensible from their perspective. You upset things, so they got rid of you. Trouble was, they didn’t know how death worked yet. They thought you’d just be gone. Poof! No more existence. But you two stuck around. Stubborn as cats, you were.” 

“But... we are...” 

“You are now,” Agnes said. “I expect it took you a while to figure out how to beat their game. You see, you still had a part to play. And since SHE-HE-THEM wouldn’t give up on that, you managed a second chance. And you found yourself a shape to provide that second chance.” She gave him an approving look. “You know what they say about cats and death?” 

“Nine lives?” Aziraphale guessed. 

“Exactly. They’re rather good at eluding Death and trying again.” Her smile turned sad. “How many thousands of lifetimes you’ve led to get yourself back to him.” 

Aziraphale sank down, feeling very lost. “I don’t... remember.” 

The woman came around the table and took him into her arms. “No, dearie. I’m sure you don’t. You couldn’t, you see. Not for it to be natural. No one can remember all this and be alive. It ruins the mystery. And the plan. Free will wouldn’t work if you knew too much.” 

She took a seat in an easy chair, the cat curled in her lap. “When your part in the plan changed, you had to lose a lot of what you were and what you knew. Sacrifice it to seek your love. So you wouldn’t know too much. And so they – your sides – wouldn't recognize you. They might have killed you properly if they’d known you were still around and about. They’ve gotten much better about it since then. And...” She stroked the cat. “...you don’t have the resistance you did back then.” 

Aziraphale lay silent, not even purring at her touch. 

“But, in the end, you and he were where you were supposed to be. And you did very well. You saved the world.” 

“But...” Aziraphale whispered. “I lost him. Or... he lost me. I’m dead.” 

Agnes booted him off her lap and dumped him on the floor. “Oh, you foolish cat. Of course you’re not dead. Not all the way. If you were you’d be talking to the fellow with the overly-dramatic sense of fashion and not to me. No, no, no. You’ve reached a bit of a halfway point. What happens next is up to you.” 

“To me?” Aziraphale climbed to his feet, gazing up at her wide-eyed. “What are my choices?” 

“Well, you can stay until Death gets here. Enjoy another scone or two. Then you and Death can go off to where you once belonged. You’ll get back all you lost. Memories. Powers. You’ll know who you are and why you were created.” 

“Or...?” Aziraphale prompted. 

“Or you walk out that door and run like Heaven is after you. If you’re quick, you ought to get back to where you were.” 

The cat winced. “To a dying body,” he said quietly. 

The witch looked sorrowful. “That’s right, dearie. To all the pain of being alive. To not knowing who you were. To fearing your side will find you and make death stick this time. To a world full of entropy and a future you know nothing about.” 

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “There’s only one choice then, isn’t there?” 

Agnes smiled. 

“Thank you for the tea,” Aziraphale said. 

He ran out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Galloping Cat](http://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/the-galloping-cat/) By Stevie Smith


	17. Come, Cat, to My Amorous Heart

It had been a week since the fire. 

The city seemed no different. No memory of what had happened. Just people getting on with their lives. 

Crowley watched the world from Shadwell’s window. The glass was as dirty as everything else in the flat, but Crowley felt no energy to care. 

He was quiet now. No more shows of grief. No more fighting. He ate what Shadwell put in front of him and sometimes curled beside the old man at night. The rest of the time he lay on the windowsill, watching the world without caring about what he saw. 

His mind drifted in a detached way, carefully not focusing on what he’d lost. If he didn’t think, it wasn’t real. Nothing was real. 

Shadwell seemed to like his company, so there was that. Newt hadn’t officially moved out, but he’d spent exactly one overnight in the apartment since Armageddon, and he took more clothes with him every time he visited. Shadwell fussed about the rent, but he smiled proudly behind Newt’s back. 

“And,” he told Crowley, “rent in this place may not be a problem much longer.” 

He spent a great deal of time down in Madame Tracy’s flat. When he wasn’t with her, he was often staring at himself in the mirror, pawing a hand through his thinning hair. “Do y’think she likes bald men?” he worried. 

“Witchfinder,” he said to Crowley as they sat together one rare evening in which he wasn’t with Tracy. “That’s what I am. I look fer them. Fer Satan’s minions on the Earth. But...” He looked rueful. “...I’m not so sure ‘bout the burnin’ part. Fella could go to jail fer that. An’ maybe the title jest means findin’ ‘em. And keeping an eye on ‘em. So they dun’t cause trouble. No need fer the burnin’ part, ye’ think?” 

Crowley looked seriously at him. 

“Besides,” Shadwell continued, “I’m not so certain Tracy’s a witch. Oh, she talks to them spirits an’ gives cats funny names an’ such. But...” He leaned conspiratorially close to Crowley. “Last night? I counted.” 

Newt and Anathema. Tracy and Shadwell. Two by two. 

Crowley was happy for them. Distantly.

Even if he knew happiness would never be for him. 

Newt’s car pulled up to the curb. Crowley watched him help Madame Tracy out, then go around to the back and lift something from the backseat. 

It was a cat carrier. 

Crowley’s ears flattened. Were they replacing _him_ already?! 

He listened to the humans entering downstairs, then Shadwell opened the door. 

“Come on, ye’ demon,” he growled. “Ye’ kin stop mopin’ now.” 

Crowley hissed when Shadwell approached, but his swipe was half-hearted, and he failed to jump down before the old man held him half smothered in his arms. 

If they thought bringing a new cat would make everything better... 

Shadwell dumped him on the ground just inside Tracy’s door. “There. Ye’ kin walk on yer own, demon.” 

Crowley stayed where he’d been dropped, glaring at Madame Tracy as she set the cat carrier on the table. 

“Here he is now,” the woman cooed. “Home safe and sound.” She opened the carrier and put in her hands. 

A weak meow drew Crowley’s attention and stopped his heart. 

“Gently please, my dear,” purred a familiar voice as Tracy lifted a bundle of white fur into her arms. “Much of me is still quite sore.” 

Crowley was across the room and trying to claw his way up Tracy’s leg before he had time to think. 

“Angel!’ he yowled desperately. “Angel!” 

“Yes, yes,” Madame Tracy said with a smile, even as she struggled to move without stepping on the hysterical cat. “Here comes your darling, Mister Crowley.” She lowered her precious cargo to the ground. 

Crowley collapsed over the reclining form. His tongue swept desperately over fur which tasted of disinfectants and strangers’ touches. 

Aziraphale’s leg was in a cast. His fur was patched and shaved. His eyes were heavy with drugs. But he was alive! 

“Thank you. Thank you,” Crowley whispered, even if he had no idea who he was thanking. The tears fell freely as his frantic grooming reached Aziraphale’s face. 

A heavy paw slung around his neck, pulling him even closer. Aziraphale smiled blissfully. His rough tongue lapped across Crowley’s nose. “Hello, my dear,” he whispered hoarsely. “I came back.”

=^-^=

Two cats lay peacefully entwined in the front window of a bookshop in Soho. 

The ‘ _Grand Reopening_ ’ banner above the door was beginning to look tattered, but no one had bothered to take it down yet. Perhaps everyone needed the reminder of lives returned to a new state of normal. 

It probably hadn’t been cost-effective to rebuild the bookshop, but Madame Tracy had done it anyway. If she wired across the Atlantic to a certain ambassador's son, or if she took all of her johns for one last farewell ride before hanging up her riding crop for good, she never told. 

The damage wasn’t as bad as everyone had originally thought. Although the books were largely a lost cause, the structure was sound. Several months of repairs and a great deal of cleaning saw it looking better than before. 

The reopening had been delayed first by a small ceremony with the justice of the peace for an elderly pair, and then by a somewhat larger ceremony for a bumbling young man and a confident young woman. 

Everyone agreed Crowley had performed admirably as ring-bearer. Aziraphale's guarding of the buffet table had been less appreciated.

But at last the shop had opened its doors and the curious of Soho arrived to see its wares. 

“Can you two move long enough for me to put up a display?” Anathema teased, lifting Crowley’s tail out of the way to set down a bookstand. 

“Only if you bring me the Christie novels,” Aziraphale replied with a yawn. “I’m feeling like some light reading.” 

Anathema patted him absently and went off in search of books for displaying. But there was a Christie novel tucked within the stack she brought back, so who knew what she understood? 

Anathema and Newt were running the shop full-time now. Tracy still owned it, and came in regularly to check the books and stock, but she claimed to be retired now. She and Shadwell had moved to a senior center with the intent of spending their declining years playing bingo and learning to salsa. Within a month, Tracy had grown unimpressed with management. 

Now she and Shadwell were running the place. 

As Anathema busied with the display, Crowley dropped to the floor with a lazy yawn. “Supper, Angel?” he asked. 

Soon two cats lounged outside of their favorite sushi restaurant, a plate of sashimi between them. 

Soho restaurants liked to post signs of ‘ _Cats’ pick of the week_ ’ in their windows. The feline pair had become quite the establishment in their corner of London. 

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Aziraphale said abruptly. “About what I saw when I was... dead.” 

Crowley focused pointedly on the fish. “You told me all of that.” 

“But you never answered.” 

“What’s there to talk about? We were one thing once and now we’re not. Why linger on it?” 

“But... do you want to know more? Be more? Find out what it was we used to be? Used to know?” 

Crowley stared at the ground. “I’ve been around a long time,” he said. “I don’t remember a lot of things. But I remember feeling... halved. Like something was always missing.” His amber eyes met Aziraphale’s. “I don’t feel that anymore.” 

Aziraphale nodded seriously. 

“To me,” Crowley continued, “this is what’s important. You. Me. Together. If we find out the past, maybe we lose that. Maybe we don’t. But I won’t risk this. And... from what I’ve seen, whatever company we used to keep... they were absolute pricks. I’d rather keep forgetting all that.” His ears splayed worriedly. “Unless... you want all that?” 

Aziraphale smiled. He bridged the space between them and pressed his forehead to Crowley’s. “I know everything I need to know.” 

Crowley leaned into him. He wrapped one paw around Aziraphale’s neck, pulling them close enough to become one feline. 

“My dear?” Aziraphale murmured after a moment. 

“Yes, Angel?” 

“You’re standing in the sushi.”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Le Chat](https://fleursdumal.org/poem/132) By Charles Baudelaire, Translated by William Aggeler
> 
> A silly story completed. Let's all take a moment to be impressed that I finally wrote a SHORT story (even if I expected this to be more like a 5k thing... close enough). 
> 
> Thanks so much to the artist for the prompt and for giving me the opportunity to write a story around your amazing work. I hope you enjoyed the results!
> 
> I've had a couple questions about inspiration or references to other stories. Regarding Gaimen's _The Price_ \- it wasn't intentional, but, yes, I did finish the chapter of Crowley fighting nightmares and begin to think I'd read that somewhere. So, no, it wasn't an intended reference, but it was probably a subconscious one. The _Neverwhere_ references, however, were completely intentional. Also, the Dowling household closing ranks and taking care of anyone who harms their child is directly inspired by _Murder on the Orient Express_ , so thank you Dame Christie. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading along. I hope you enjoyed the feline madness!


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